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In 2009, Bazura Project co-creator Shannon Marinko produced a sitcom for Melbourne’s Channel 31 called The Invisible, Inaudible Family. In a parody of high concept marketing typical of Marinko’s prankish, cynical nerd-centric humour, the name of the sitcom pretty much describes what the show is about: a family that can neither be seen nor heard.

Marinko purportedly wrote a screenplay for his series that included all the narrative situations and punchlines. He then took his camera into a fully furnished two storey suburban home where he photographed scenes in rooms with everything but a cast. His set ups are based on shots commonly used in sitcoms filmed in front of live audiences, such as Friends, Seinfeld or Two and a Half Men. Establishing shots, pans, master shots and shot-reverse shots tend to dominate, as they do in the run-of-the-mill sitcom.

The use of shot-reverse shots indicate exchanges between characters, and editing provides a sense of the pace of the unheard dialogue. The only sound used in the series – apart from the theme music and its riff of bridging chords used to denote a new scene – is applause and laugh tracks, sometimes referred to as “canned laughter” to indicate that the laughs are inserted in post-production from preexisting stock recordings of audience laughter stored in separate “cans”.

Inger-Lise Bore identifies the laugh track as having two key functions: “one of these is to offer individual viewers a sense that ‘we’ are all watching and laughing at the program together, as a collective audience … [while] a second, related function of the laugh track is to ensure that the comedy feels like a ‘safe’ space where it is okay to laugh at people’s misfortunes or transgressions” (2011, p. 24). However, Bore also points out that there is a manipulative aspect to the laugh track insomuch as it tells us when (it is safe) to laugh and, perhaps more insidiously, that it attempts to discourage polysemic readings of the televisual text by suggesting that there is only one way to view and experience the text presented on screen (p.24). Brett Mills states that sitcoms can never successfully convince us that they are funny, but what they can do is show us, via a live audience’s response, that other people found them funny, which is considered fundamental to their success and the reason why “the key generic characteristic of the sitcom is the laugh track” (2009, p.102). Mills adds that in his interviews with industry personnel, a common view expressed by interviewees was that “laughter captured at the time of recording is a sign of ‘authenticity’ and that using canned laughter was tantamount to acknowledging that a program had failed” (p. 102).

The laugh tracks heard in The Invisible, Inaudible Family are conspicuously canned, evidenced by the way they are cut off as though by the flick of a switch, and by the repetitive use of a finite and specific set of laugh tracks. The repetition of the same bursts of laughter has an accumultively numbing effect as it becomes increasingly disingenuous, and yet it is because of this very effect that it becomes strangely absorbing and amusing, serving to validate Marinko’s project, which is to deliberately poke fun at and highlight the artificiality and contrived nature of the sitcom.

What is fascinating about Marinko’s use of the laugh track is how his manipulation of its regularity and intensity taps into our familiarity with this particular televisual form. Thus without seeing anyone or hearing any dialogue, we develop a general sense of the type of conversations taking place, based entirely on the use of the laugh track, the framing, and the pace of cuts. Thus, where there is only intermittent laughter combined with the shot/reverse shot, we can assume that some of the invisible characters are having a conversation and, most probably, one of the characters is responding with sarcasm to comments (or set ups) made by another character. This is – typically – a set up/punchline format.

Sometimes the camera will focus on a doorway before panning across the room while the laugh track bursts with spontaneous hilarity and applause, indicating that a popular character has just entered the room (in Seinfeld, this was usually Kramer bursting into Jerry’s apartment in some idiosyncratic way, or two decades earlier, Fonzi swaggering into Al’s Diner to deliver his signature, “Aaaaa!”). On other occasions, a take may be quite long while uproarious laughter is heard, suggesting that either a sight gag, a showdown, a deliberate pause to encourage laughter, or a rapid-fire string of punch lines is being performed.

By utilising a laugh track while dispensing with cast and dialogue, and only filming empty spaces, The Invisible Inaudible Family lampoons as well as reveals the artifice of the sitcom template. It also heightens our awareness of the spacial and lighting elements of mise-en-scene that indicate time of day, the function of specific spaces and settings (kitchen, lounge, bedroom, etc), and where within the space we might expect to see characters positioned were they visible. The editing likewise orients us in space, but more importantly it serves the dialogue, cutting to which ever character is speaking.

With an adaptation of Atlas Shrugged finally hitting the screens (and slinking out quickly, its boxoffice would indicate), I got to thinking about the other, infamous Ayn Rand cinema excursion, King Vidor’s The Fountainhead (1949). As detested as it is by some critics, I actually find it most loopily enjoyable.

Anyway, the hero of the story is Howard Roarke, a brilliant architect who refuses to compromise his designs to placate the dimwitted, the close-minded, anyone who wants a neo-Roman touch or anyone who wants to include amenities that may be beneficial to poor people. Yeah, he’s a helluva guy.

So in the movie he is played by Gary Cooper and in one pivotal scene he unveils his masterpiece –

Unique and with no concession to architectural traditions, this skyscraper’s beauty lay in its pure functionality. Patricia Neal swooned, but sadly the scared, lunk-headed public would not buy such a proposition. Poor Howie becomes a martyr to all those free-thinkers unwilling to bend to the collective.

Were such a situation ever to occur many of us would be outraged at such talent and ideology being so encumbered. But the very first time I saw The Fountainhead (maybe 25 years ago) something struck be about the design presented in the film. What cinema’s Howard Roarke had essentially designed were Melbourne’s Gas and Fuel Buildings.

Completed in 1967 and despised by the public from the day they opened, there was close to a mass celebration when they were finally torn down in 1997 to make way for the generally well-liked Federation Square complex.

Warner Bros. 2000 re-release of The Exorcist (Friedkin 1973), subtitled The Version You’ve Never Seen (1), adds an additional ten minutes to the original running time of 122 minutes by reinserting previously excised footage. The most significant sequences reinserted include early medical examinations that show Regan growing increasingly distant and hostile, a conversation between Chris and Regan’s doctor in which he discusses Regan’s use of profanity, the bittersweet denouement in which Lieutenant Kinderman strikes up a friendship with Father Dyer (a relationship explored extensively by director William Peter Blatty in his 1990 sequel The Exorcist III based on his 1983 book, Legion), and the infamous “spider walk” scene that Friedkin had earlier insisted served only to detract from the shock revelation of Burke Denning’s death. (2)

The re-release also introduces superimposed shots of the demon Pazuzu flashing briefly onscreen: once over Chris’s right shoulder as she pauses in the kitchen while the lights flicker on and off, and moments later inside Regan’s bedroom against the door, just before Chris opens it to find her daughter uncovered and the windows wide open. But reinserted footage and CG composites are not the only additions to The Version You’ve Never Seen.

A complaint levelled against the narrative coherence of the 1973 film concerns the opening Iraqi sequence and its relevance to Regan’s possession in Georgetown, USA. It is really only the presence of Father Dyer as well as a brief appearance of the statue of Pazuzu in Regan’s bedroom during the exorcism ritual that infers any relationship between the two locations. The 2000 re-release of The Exorcist attempts to close the gap between Northern Iraq and Georgetown through sound. Augmentations to the soundtrack draw us back time and again to the archeological dig, the marketplace, the foundry, the statue of Pazuzu, and, in the final moments of the film, as Father Dyer and Lieutenant Kinderman walk away, the muslim call to prayer that opens the Ninevah sequence at the start of the film.

In this brief discussion of The Exorcist: The Version You’ve Never Seen, I want to explore the ways that sound is used in the film to reinforce clearer links between the events that unfold in Iraq during the film’s prologue, and the subsequent possession and exorcism that takes place in Georgetown.

Sound design in The Exorcist (Friedkin, 1973) can be roughly divided into two groups: the former focuses on medievalism, in which emphasis is placed upon the primacy of religious terminology, invocations and utterances, as well as extensive use of pre-industrial agrarianism and strenuous physical labour. The latter looks at late industrial capitalism where modern technology and mechanised labour are foregrounded.

Throughout the lengthy opening sequence of the film, the soundscape in Iraq can be described as medieval. In using this term, I refer to diegetic sounds derived either from low-tech sources, such as pickaxes and hammers, or from natural sources, such as human or animal voices. In referring to the voice as “medieval” I am specifically addressing the issue of spoken language and in the context of this essay the human voice can be divided into both medieval and modern language categorisations.

The human utterances heard in the opening sequence at the Ninevah excavation site in Iraq are exclusively arabic, a language whose current canonic incarnation dates back to the seventh century CE, although earlier incarnations and linguistic roots date back to the second millennium BCE (3). Although medieval is not the correct term to describe the human voice in the section of the film set in Iraq—a more appropriate term might be “ancient”—I employ it here to distinguish the use of arabic in the opening sequence in Iraq from the modern colloquial Anglo-American language used through most of the rest of the film (with the exception of the modern greek spoken by Mrs. Karras and Pazuzu, who also utters nonsensical smatterings of french and latin).

Modernity, it can be argued, is almost altogether absent from the Iraq-based section of the soundtrack. From the solitary call to prayer through to the disturbing crescendo that accompanies Father Merrin’s discovery of the unearthed statue of Pazuzu, the soundtrack consists almost entirely of primitive and primal elements. The pendulum clock and Merrin’s briefly heard jeep are the only two sonic exceptions belonging to the modern world. Both of these are connected to Merrin and one of these, the clock, is ominously silenced.

At the other end is the modern. The moment we cross-fade from Ninevah to Georgetown, the sounds of modernity take over: trains, cars, jet engines, motorbikes, radios, megaphones, telephones, a fish tank filter, a steam iron, doorbells, light switches, police sirens, medical machinery and the specialist rational language of medical science. These sounds, signifiers of modernity, for a time dominate the film’s soundtrack. However these sound diminish in proportion to the Regan’s possession as it begins to engulf, destabilise and finally silence the rational, technical, mechanical, medical, jargonistic, automated sounds of the modern age. The sounds of modernity are rendered mute and impotent by the primitive. Muteness is emphasised in Tim Semmerling’s analysis of the film, in which he observes how its protagonists “lose control over language and succumb to the point that they are rendered speechless.” (4)

The Iraqi sequence begins with the busy sounds of multiple pickaxes, shovels, barrows, footsteps and the din of voices at the archeological dig in Nineveh. Later when the film follows Merrin through the marketplace the cacophany of competing sounds dominates: vendors selling their wares, the rise and fall of voices in the crowd, the unending sound of drums, and from a foundry, the synchopated high-pitched clanging of metal on metal as three labourers stand at an anvil, skillfully hammering away in a fast rhythmic sequence of carefully timed hypnotic repeating triplets.

Later still we hear a horse and buggy clopping and rattling on stone paving, distant at first, then arriving with a sonic boom as Merrin narrowly avoids being struck by the galloping animal. Returning to the dig, Merrin confronts the Pazuzu idol and layer upon layer of atonal sounds are combined, creating an alarming and overwhelming crescendo intended to denote the lurking presence of a potent supernatural force. The source of these sounds are in keeping with the sequence’s primitivity insomuch as their origins are likewise drawn from the natural world, rather than the world of machinery. Jay Beck describes how musician Ron Nagle developed his sound effects for the sequence “by agitating several bees trapped in a jar, getting his dogs into a fight, and recording his girlfriend’s stomach while she drank water.” (5)

Ron Nagle’s soundtrack adds layer upon layer

As the unearthly crescendo diminishes with the cross-fade from Iraq to Georgetown, the first noise heard is the whirring scream of airplane engines. The frame shows an extreme long shot of the McNeil house across the other side of the Potomac river. As the shot slowly closes in on the house, the jets fade and the rumble of cars crossing the Potomac bridge is clearly heard. The soundscape has substituted the primitive for the modern. Eventually this will reverse so that the only thing that can be heard on the soundtrack is Regan’s unearthly moaning and howling filling the Georgetown house. Technology is powerless against this demonic auditory force: distressed by the incessant wailing, Sharon seeks comfort from her radio in an effort to drown out the omnipresent demon’s voice, but to no avail.

The sound of modernity also include modern medicine, but this too is ultimately rendered ineffective, The moment the medical establishment bows its head in defeat takes place not when they suggest Chris take her daughter to a priest, but much earlier when Dr Klein is examining Regan’s initial cranial x-rays. The critical moment occurs as the doctor is analysing the film against an automated x-ray screen. The screens are attached to a motor that whirs loudly as it raises and lowers each set of scans. At one point, an x-ray screen moves down and out of the frame, leaving the cinema screen empty. In this moment, the audience has nothing to look at but whiteness. The blank screen seems representative of the failure of sight – the most privileged of senses – and conflates sightlessness with the inability of rationalism and medical science to provide any explanation for Regan’s condition. In this image, the doctors quite literally draw a blank. As if to confirm this, as the next x-ray rises in close up on screen, Klein declares, “I don’t see a thing.” But the bare white screen also implies that cinema itself – that most modern of Western mechanistic marvels – has also been rendered powerless. For a medium structured around moving pictures, the audience is denied both movement and pictures as cinema is struck as sightless in both eyes as the one-eyed man slaving over an anvil in his Iraqi foundry.

The medical segment of the film ends with the doctors suggesting to Chris that she take her daughter to see a priest. Chris’ reply sums up the failure of modern medicine to help her daughter, and formally introduces the theme of medievalism and primitivity intruding on the modern age: “You’re telling me to take my daughter to see a witch doctor, is that it?” This theme of the primitive invading the modern is also reinforced during Chris’ initial meeting with Father Karras, who recommends a modern solution for Regan and explains to Chris the Church’s censorious policy on exorcism. Karras refers to exorcism as an historical embarrassment for the Church and answers Chris’ question, “How do you go about getting an exorcism?” with the reply, “You’d need to get in a time machine and go back to the middle ages,” emphasising the primitive nature of the practise.

Throughout The Exorcist: The Version You’ve Never Seen, Friedkin regularly returns us to Iraq and its primitive soundscape. When Father Merrin, having returned to America, is walking up a forest path and is presented with a note by a younger priest, as he reads the note summoning him to Georgetown, the triplets of syncopated foundry hammering can be faintly heard on the soundtrack. This hammering sound operates as a reminder of Merrin’s time in Iraq, as well as a prescient indicator of the hard labour ahead of him. When Merrin walks by the foundry in Iraq, the worker with one blind eye stops hammering, wipes his forehead with his kufi and looks directly at the passing priest. Behind the worker, partially concealed by shadows, we see – although more importantly, we hear – his two colleagues still hammering away on the anvil, suggesting a relationship between the arduous work to be performed by the two priests and the manual labour of the foundry workers.

During the exorcism, when we are locked in the room with the priests and Regan, the soundtrack completely reverts to a medievalism that echoes the earlier Iraqi soundscape: the muslim call to prayer becomes the Catholic ritual of exorcism; the multiple voices emanating from Regan recall the cacophany of arabic voices in the marketplace (and perhaps the rebellious rioting students drowning out the megaphone during the filming of “Crash Course”, the movie Chris and Bert are shooting); the thumping of the bed evokes the various rhythmic sounds of tools digging, tapping and hammering at the Nineveh excavation site. And as Pazuzu appears at Regan’s bedside, elements from Nagle’s sound design – most prominently the agitated bees trapped in a jar – can once again be heard.

The droning of bees can once again be heard as Pazuzu appears in Regan’s bedroom

The modern is altogether displaced or removed, just as Regan’s bedroom is stripped of all bourgeois commodities. It is as though Father Karras’ assertion—that in order to perform an exorcism, one would need a time machine to return to the 16th century—has been literalised. Indeed, when Karras first meets Regan, we find that her bedroom has been transformed. Previously the room was full of modern comforts and furnishings: fish tank, plants, a record player, a bookcase, and so on. As Karras opens the door, we see the room has been stripped bare and no longer contains any of its modern trappings. In stepping into the room, he returns to a time that physically and ideologically predates industrialisation. Reduced to nothing more than a bed and side table, the scene recalls Edvard Munch’s By the Death Bed as Karras becomes the sombre figure standing piteously over Regan’s bed.

The modern, it is supposed, can only return once the demon has been expelled and the exorcism concluded. However, following Regan’s deliverance, we never again see the inside of the Georgetown house (this does not occur until John Boorman’s odd 1977 sequel The Exorcist II: The Heretic). We are thus denied a satisfying return to normality. Instead, Chris decides to flee the house. Thus in the film’s denouement the sound of modernity finally reasserts itself as Chris and Regan are noisily driven away in a black Mercedes. Father Dyer then walks to the top of the stairs where Karras met his death, and we can hear the faint sound of traffic as cars busily cross the Potomac bridge in the middle distance. Moments later, Lieutenant Kinderman invites Father Dyer to the movies and modernity, it seems, reasserts its dominance, albeit uneasily and unconvincingly as the final sound heard before the closing credits is the muslim call to prayer.

Works cited

1. The Exorcist: The Version You’ve Never Seen, Dir. William Friedkin 2001, DVD, Warner Home Video.

2. In the documentary, The Fear of God: 25 Years of The Exorcist, Friedkin explains that he cut the spider walk sequence from the film because he felt that the shock of Burke Denning’s death was overshadowed by the alarming spectacle of Regan scampering downstairs backwards, upside down, back arched, on her hands and feet.

3. For information on the history and development of Arabic, see Verstregh, Kees. The Arabic Language. Second Edition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2014.

4. Semmerling, Tim Jon. “Evil” Arabs in American Popular Film: Orientalist Fear. 1st ed. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2006. p.40. Semmerling’s study argues that an East/West ideological struggle is visible in contemporary American cinema. He describes The Exorcist as an “orientalist-imagined struggle between an Eastern bogeyman and the Western hero, with the American cowboy figure failing” (p.31). Semmerling calls Merrin the fallen hero of the film and likens him to the cowboy of the classical Western. While the Western hero is typically accustomed to being the master of they survey, Semmerling observes that in The Exorcist, an “Arab boy stands above Merrin and stares down upon him when Merrin is first introduced to the audience. Merrin must look up, squinting under the boy’s gaze” (p.38).

The following is a supplementary component of a larger research project I am currently working on about The Child Molester (1964) and the Highway Safety Foundation. The majority of this article is a summary of the events surrounding a series of shots at the end of the film, and this reconstruction would not have been possible without the gracious assistance of Bret Wood and Boyd Addlesperger (the Sherman Room Librarian at the Mansfield/Richland County Public Library). Bret Wood’s documentary Hell’s Highway – The True Story of Highway Safety Films (2003) is essential viewing for anyone interested in ephemeral or industrial films, exploitation cinema or screen histories more generally. A trailer can be viewed here, and it is available to purchase through Amazon.

The Child Molester is in the public domain, and as such can be seen in its entirety online (please note that there is extremely graphic imagery in this film that may be disturbing and upsetting for some viewers): Click here to view film

A Brief Introduction

As their name suggests, the bulk of the Highway Safety Foundation films concerned road safety. Famous highway safety films such as Signal 30 (1959) and Wheels of Tragedy (1963) combine zeitgeist-drenched re-enactments of small town Americana with grizzly footage of actual car accidents and their mangled (often dead) victims. The juxtaposition of these pantomime-like re-enactments with often extreme, real-life gore is shocking, even to viewers today. While there is debate regarding the educational effectiveness of films such as these – did they really reduce car accidents, or were they simply an exploitation wolf in didactic sheep’s clothing– there is no escaping the powerful impact of the Highway Safety Foundation films. But as artist William E. Jones’ Mansfield 1962 (2006) and Tearoom (1962/2007) (the latter which screened in 2008 at the Whitney in New York) has shown, the Highway Safety Foundation’s non-driver education films offer a just as fascinating (and conceptually problematic) point of interest. Sifting through public domain footage online, Jones discovered a Highway Safety Foundation film from 1964 titled Camera Surveillance: ostensibly a training film showing the virtues of using hidden cameras for law enforcement professionals, it consisted of footage Mansfield police filmed through a two-way mirror with the assistance of the Highway Safety Foundation of anonymous homosexual encounters in a public bathroom in Mansfield’s Central Park in 1962. This footage led to the arrest of a large number of men (numbers vary from 38 to 69), and formed the basis of Jones’ Mansfield works which are remarkable historical documents that eloquently and powerfully capture a particular moment of the unfolding story of human sexuality. Jones’ work is visual poetry that captures the very real invasions of privacy and abuses of human dignity that result from bigotry and discrimination. But the events that lead to the filming of the material later used in Camera Surveillance and Jones’ work lie in another Highway Safety Foundation film, which is the topic of this post. Ex-Mansfield Chief of Police John R. Butler wrote in his book about 19-year-old Jerrel Ray Howell who was charged and imprisoned for the murder of Connie Burtoch and Jean Hurrell, aged 7 and 9. In his interview with police the night of the murders, Howell informed them about the activities taking place in Central Park leading to the filming of the now notorious ‘tearoom’ footage.

While much of this film plays out at as a simple educational film for school-aged children about the threat of the eponymous child “molester”, the shock of seeing those murdered corpses of two young girls in the final moments is arguably one of the most shocking and grotesque moments in any Highway Safety Foundation film. But who are these children? Although Jerrel Ray Howell, Jean Hurrell and Connie Burtoch’s names are not used in the movie, there is enough evidence that supports claims that this crime scene footage in The Child Molester is taken from their case. This evidence supports the opinion of Bret Wood (director of the excellent documentary Hell’s Highway: The True Story of the Highway Safety Foundation) that he voiced in our email correspondence that “it’s a safe assumption. The circumstances are identical”. William E. Jones also explicitly states that both The Child Molester and Camera Surveillance were “inspired by” and “based on the 1962 double-homicide”. Witnesses at the Hurrell-Burtoch scene recall the girls wearing “bathing suits or sun suits”, and in the film, the outfits the girls wear (‘Mary’ in a white top and ‘Jeannie’ in a pink sun suit) closely resemble the same outfits worn by the victims shown in crime scene footage in the film’s final moments.

The Burtoch-Hurrell Murders: Mansfield, Ohio, 1962

The Child Molester cannot be fully considered without a reconstruction of the events that surround its climactic real-life crime scene footage. It was the middle of summer in Mansfield, Ohio on Saturday June 23, 1962. It had rained that day, and 9-year-old Jean Marie Burtoch and her 7-year-old friend Connie Lynn Hurrell, perhaps enjoying the break in the weather, were playing outside. Jean was in the fourth grade and was active within the community—she attended Sunday School, was a Brownie Scout and was a member of the Mansfield Children’s Theatre. Connie was a little younger, and had just finished second grade and was ready to move into the third. Connie’s mother was out that night and had left her daughter with a babysitter. Jean lived with her grandparents, and her grandfather Carl recalled seeing Jean and Connie playing outside at approximately 4pm that afternoon: “It had rained, they put on their swimming suits and went out to play in the puddles. I gave Jeanie some change and they went to the refreshment stand for ice cream. The two girls were friends although Connie had only lived near us a couple of weeks”. Michael Bowie, who was 13 at the time, remembered seeing the two girls at North Lake Park that afternoon, playing near a creek close by. They were alone, he recalled, and he warned them against playing in deep water.

Glendon Mount was in his early 20’s and worked at the mini-golf course at the park. He remembered seeing Howell playing with the girls near the golf course that afternoon at approximately 4pm to 4.30pm. In The Best Suit in Town: A Great Generation of Cops (2001) ex-Mansfield Chief of Police John R. Butler includes a lengthy excerpt of Howell’s confession of the murder of the two girls. Howell claims he met the girls near the water while they were catching water lizards. He offered to take them to a better location, but they refused because of snakes. Howell insisted that there were no snakes in that area, but the girls refused to believe him, and insisting on showing him otherwise, they left with him. Once in a secluded area with the two girls, Howell stated, “he got his penis out and held it in his hand and both girls started to scream. He told them to shut up and they screamed even louder and began to cry. Then they began to run, the smaller one behind the older one. I gave the small one a shove and she fell onto the other one. They were both down, still hollering. I then chopped both girls across the neck with a judo chop and then put the feet to them’”.

The bodies were discovered by a group of boys walking across the bridge that ran across Touby’s Run. One of those boys, John Duzan, spoke at Howell’s trial: “At first we thought it was a joke somebody was playing, they looked like dolls. They were face down in the water. We went to a filling station and the man there called the police”. The call was made from a nearby gas station close to 8pm that evening. Officer Edwin Smith received a call that some children had drowned in the creek near West Fourth Street Bridge, and the police arrived soon after. At first, there was some confusion about the scenario presented before them: coroner Dr D.C. Lavender, Butler recalls, believed it was an accidental death until a police officer pointed out blood and that some fabric had been tied around one of the girls’ necks. But upon further investigation, Lavender reported, “both girls died as a result of violent blows to the head which produced skull fractures and brain injuries…there was no evidence of sexual attack”. He also reported, “a ‘T’ shirt worn by one of the girls had been wrapped and knotted about her neck and that there was some possibility of partial strangulation”. On this, he was right: during Howell’s trial in 1965, a pathologist confirmed that Jean Burtoch had been strangled to death, while Connie Hurrell had drowned.

Howell was hardly an elusive suspect, and he was taken into custody only five hours after the discovery of the children’s bodies. The police gained intelligence very quickly (probably from Glendon Mount) that the troubled 18-year-old had been seen nearby at the North Lake Park near the public toilets speaking to the two children. Howell was familiar to police: he had been cited twice previously for “sexual perversion” in 1957 and 1968, and had been out of institutionalized care for only four months prior to the murders of the two girls. Four days after the killings, Dr Robert A Hames, the Director of Mental Hygiene and Corrections for the state of Ohio, was reported in the Mansfield News-Journal stating that “Howell was released from the Juvenile Diagnostic Center in Columbus four months ago because examination failed to show he needed further psychiatric treatment”. Media coverage of this self-defined “lone wolf” often mentioned his weight and IQ: he was 200 pounds and six foot tall at the age of 16, which according to the current Body Mass Index would suggest he was overweight (but not obese). Howell was also very bright, with his IQ ranking of 127 suggesting he was a young man of superior intelligence. But Howell was also clearly troubled, and according to court records he talked regularly about suicide “because he felt people didn’t like him”.

Howell was arrested at the house where he lived with his mother and stepfather that night at 1.30am, and confessed to the murder of Hurrell and Bertoch at 2.30am the next morning. The news was the front-page headline in the Mansfield News-Journal, and Glendon Mount picked him out of a line-up behind a two-way mirror that same day. According to Captain Marion L. Hardesty, he and two other detectives offered to take Howell to the funeral home to view the bodies. While he had little response to seeing the corpses, Hardesty noted that “in the cruiser on the way back … he started to sing and whistle and did that all the way back to the station”. Howell pleaded an insanity defence, which rendered an appalled public effectively crippled in their outrage: they still demanded some kind of action, even though the culprit had been easily captured. Police Chief Clare W. Kyler announced the day after the murder that “he would strongly urge to the city administration that the city re-establish park police to prevent a recurrence of Saturday’s tragedy”. But this was deemed insufficient, and it was in this climate that Howell’s comment during his interrogation regarding the gay sex occurring in the Central Park’s public toilets led to the ‘tearoom’ busts and its notorious footage.

In February 1963, eight months after the murders, and long since the ‘tearoom’ busts, Howell was sent to the Lima State Hospital for the Criminally Insane for 25 months. Over three years after the murders, Howell’s trial began in the Richland County Commons Pleas Court in Mansfield on November 5, 1965 when he was deemed fit to stand. Public interest in the case when the trial started was low, and the local newspaper reported, “the courtroom has not been full. The spectators are mostly Howell’s family, the families of the two slain girls, courthouse employees and sherriff’s deputies”. Howell appeared calm throughout the trial, although he was still being medicated for his epilepsy. A few days into the trial, however, and it began to look less like the open-and-shut case that locals may have assumed it to be. Interest grew as prosecutor and defence attorneys debated the legal and constitutional ramifications surrounding Howell’s arrest and the seizure of the clothes he wore during the crime. It was in this context that Howell’s sudden change to a guilty plea of murder on November 11 1965 came as a shock: “Howell’s guilty plea came with an almost numbing calmness and left spectators in the half-filled common pleas courtroom a little wilted and disbelieving”. This plea nullified Howell’s previous insanity defence, but by pleading to two counts of second-degree murder he avoided the possibility of being executed if the insanity plea was rejected. Howell’s was sentenced to two consecutive terms of life imprisonment, and he died in prison at age 33.

After the trial’s sudden conclusion, the rhetoric about “sex deviants” that had so strongly marked the case at the time of the murders had vanished. Instead, the Richland County Prosecutor Rex Larson made it clear whom he considered responsible with no mention of the events surrounding the ‘tearoom’ busts: “I lay these two deaths, and this is for the record, at the doorstep of the juvenile authorities in the state of Ohio…He (Howell) was in custody of the state juvenile authorities and was released by them without their resolving his personality problem … The state not only made it possible, but probable that he would do these acts”. The vehemence with which Larson’s speech shifts the responsibility for the murders of Connie Hurrell and Jean Bertoch from “sex deviates” to a broader institutional failing on the part of the government is striking, and raises significant questions surrounding the effectiveness of the crusade against “sex deviates” in the ‘tearoom’ busts in 1962. It may seem obvious from a contemporary perspective that associations between homosexuality and child abuse are factually unsupportable. Says Dr Gregory Herek: “The empirical research does not show that gay or bisexual men are any more likely than heterosexual men to molest children. This is not to argue that homosexual and bisexual men never molest children. But there is no scientific basis for asserting that they are more likely than heterosexual men to do so. And, as explained above, many child molesters cannot be characterized as having an adult sexual orientation at all; they are fixated on children”. But regardless of how ideologically regressive and factually unfounded the linking of homosexuality to so-called child sexual assault and other forms of what once was called “sex deviancy” may be now considered, there is little doubt that there was some degree of sincerity on the part of many in the Mansfield Police department and those involved in the ‘tearoom’ busts to take concrete action to avoid similar future instances. Whether this was justified higher up to distract the public from the slipshod manner that Howell – an earlier offender – was allowed to slip through the cracks to commit such a heinous crime is open to debate.

Tragically, it perhaps goes without saying therefore that these kinds of crimes did not magically vanish after the ‘tearoom’ busts. Only three days after Howell entered his guilty plea in court, a case with noteworthy similarities occurred again in Mansfield. On Sunday November 14 1965, 22-year-old Lester Eubanks attempted to rape 14 year-old Mary Ellen Deener who was on her way to the local Laundromat. Like Howell, Eubanks had a history of criminal activity: he had assaulted a 12-year-old girl when he was 16, and had been released on bond for assault with intent to rape at the time of Deener’s death. She was shot in the right side of her chest, and then in the abdomen, but in a curious allusion to the Howell’s murder, Eubanks returned to the body after he had shot her and smashed Deener’s head in with a brick. It may only be coincidence and nothing more than a failed attempt to conceal her identity, but considering the Deener murder occurred during a period when local interest in the Howell case had been regenerated, there is enough evidence to at least raise some suspicions that Eubanks may have to some degree returned to attack Deener with a brick as some kind of subconscious (or even conscious) allusion to Howell. This is, of course, just speculation, and shall no doubt remain as such: while Eubanks was convicted on May 25 1966 for first-degree murder while perpetrating a rape, he escaped from prison on December 7, 1973. As of January 2010, the FBI is still offering a reward of up to $10,000 USD for information leading to his arrest.

References:

Butler, John P. The Best Suit in Town: A Generation of Cops. Royal Palm Press: Charlotte Harbor, 2001.

“Bodies of Two Girls Found In Creek; Suspect Murder.” Mansfield News-Journal 24 June 1962: 1.

PART FOUR: MAKING AN INDUSTRIAL MOUNTAIN INTO A MOLEHILL – PARAMOUNT’S DISASTROUS POSTWAR PERIOD.

By 1946 Paramount had established itself as market leader in the American film industry. In a year that was bountiful for nearly all studios (only United Artists suffered a loss), the company realised profits of $39.2 million, nearly double of its nearest rival, 20th Century Fox. This was a record for Paramount – in fact, it would take over 30 years for any film company to better that figure. (Finler 151)

Paramount’s success was based on a two factors: firstly, a well-crafted slate of features. For 1946 the studio had produced twenty-one films, of which perhaps only two could be classed as ‘super-specials’. The remainder were a mix of specials and programmers, all afforded the quality sheen of a well-honed production line. The slate also included three B-films, from the Pine-Thomas production unit. A wide range of genres were encompassed and the films starred a variety of the more popular performers of the period. (Eames 178-180) This formula had been perfected over many years, but 1946’s range of films appeared no more remarkable than a number of previous years, with no particular blockbuster hit accounting for such high returns. What enabled Paramount to achieve such profits can be attributed to the second factor – exhibition.

In 1945 Paramount owned (outright) 14 theatre chains comprising of 455 theatres, had controlling interests in another 775 and was a minority partner in another 275. Paramount could channel their product directly through their own cinemas, thereby collecting the entire gross, rather than just the rental, which is the amount customarily returned to distributors. Naturally, if the films are of a higher quality (ie: with greater audience appeal), the theatre’s revenues – and in turn the parent company’s – will increase exponentially. (Izod 118-120) In 1946 Paramount’s fortunes were aided immeasurably by Americans attending the cinema in record numbers. 82 million tickets were being sold per week, an amount consistent with the previous three years. (Finler 288) Now, with the Second World War won and service personnel having returned home and reunited with their families it would appear that with peace would flow even greater riches for America’s favourite ticket of entertainment.

Paramount’s holdings of 1500 cinemas were the most of any film-production company. In total, the studios owned approximately 3100 theatres, around 15% of the 18,000 operating in 1946. Overall this may have seemed a small percentage, but in terms of theatre value, the studios controlled 70% of the lucrative first run houses in American cities with populations of 100,000 or more and 60% of towns 25-100,000 in size. (Dick 37-9) The major studios had formed a business cartel with their theatre holdings and their control of the market had squeezed all but the most tenacious independent operators out of the exhibition business. The position of power allowed the majors to be almost at the point of managing the entire system. Yet such a position was necessary for these companies. The combination of theatres and studios had resulted in a vast number of employees and huge amounts of capital invested in production. It was imperative that the exhibition arm offered – as close to possible – a guaranteed and obstacle-free means of screening these films to the greatest number of ticket buyers as possible. By 1946 a theatre-owning studio such as Paramount would have planned its slate of films well in advance, booking them to their screens and allocating dates for when each film was to play. Entire schedules and financial forecasts would be built around such a practice. With over 3000 staff employed on their 23 acre West Hollywood lot producing 125,000 feet of film per week, it was essential that the company ran smoothly and with as few obstacles as possible in getting their films seen by the public. (Dick 41)

During the war years Hollywood had co-operated with the U.S. government to produce films encouraging of the war effort and in this period the Justice Department anti-trust investigations, which had been brewing since 1938 were, if not officially suspended, then at least deferred. When international hostilities ceased they soon resumed in courtrooms of Washington. A 1946 ruling outlawed (again) the practice of block-booking and two years later the Supreme Court’s “Paramount Decree of 1948” finally outlawed the vertically integrated business model that had been underpinned the majors’ success (and dictated their business practices) for over 20 years. As previous chapters have explained, the legislation caused a complete restructuring of the motion picture industry and its methods of exhibition. (Izod 120-8) Each of the major studios would be effected and, in most cases, adversely. In 1958 RKO would close and by the late 1960s, excepting 20th Century Fox and Columbia, all the major studios would no longer exist as independent entities, having been swallowed into larger conglomerates, their entertainment brands now only part of a diverse portfolio.

When taking into consideration that Paramount had the most theatres to lose and combined with the loss of audience in the 1950s and the rise of television, one would think that, when examining the following graph, that the studio did remarkably well to remain in constant profit throughout the period.

Yet the chart is misleading for a substantial proportion of the profits not from the revenue on film grosses (which were generally lacklustre) but through the sale of assets and corporate restructuring.

The most dramatic fall in profits came in 1949, the year after the divestiture order. In the unfamiliar role of having to negotiate nearly all of its distribution deals, the company suffered significantly. Yet the company was not entirely without its own options for exhibition. Although the studio controlled 1500 theatres, as a reward for early compliance with the ruling, Paramount was allowed a longer period of time to shed its holdings and to also retain 650 screens under its United Paramount Theatres banner. Although a separate company with no common stockholders it could still strike exclusive deals with the production company. Naturally, the theatres it chose to sell first were the least profitable in its stable (mostly later run houses). (Izod 163)

It was the revenue from the theatre sales that raised profits in 1950, aided by the returns from Cecil B. DeMille’s Samson and Delilah, a release from late in the previous year which, with rentals of $9 million, was the studio’s highest grosser of the 1940s. Artistically, the company maintained a high standard for the first half of the new decade and attained peer plaudits by being nominated for the Best Film Academy Award each year between 1949-55 and winning 35 awards in the period. In the following fifteen years Paramount only won 15 and most of those were in minor, technical categories. (Finler 290-3)

The drop in quality may be attributed to the drain of talent from the company as a number of famed filmmakers left the lot (including Alfred Hitchcock, William Wyler, Billy Wilder and George Stevens, disgruntled with budgetary cutbacks, inadequate marketing campaigns and a general attitude that Paramount management held little respect for their talents and abilities. (Dick 44-56). The cost-cutting measures also hampered Paramount’s ability to develop a pool of new actors and of the few that were popular with the public most, including Charlton Heston, Montgomery Clift and Burt Lancaster decided to further their careers elsewhere, in roles better suited to their talents. Only the comedy team of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis and musical star Elvis Presley (alternating with an MGM contract) were ongoing successes at Paramount into the 1960s. In turn, the studio turned to a number of aging, free-lancing actors to star in their films. However, the Paramount films of Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney did little for the company’s financial fortunes and even less for its reputation as a vital and innovative filmmaking community. (Dick 44-63)

Many of the performers and directors who left Paramount, found their fortunes flourishing at United Artists, the least successful major studio of the War years. United Artists was never a true production company, instead it distributed the work of independent producers, with whom they shared the profits. During the classical Hollywood era this was a practice fraught with difficulties. Top talent was mostly aligned with studios and with a diverse group of films being handled it was difficult to maintain a continuity of releases. Yet in the mid-1950s, United Artists’ methods were clearly viewed as the future for the industry. With talent contracts being eliminated from the studios, stars, producers and directors began their own boutique companies to produce their own films. This offered them greater creative control over their careers but it also diverted their fees into the company, an option that incurred far less tax than that of a highly paid, salaried studio contract player. United Artists (now also involved in financing their releases) offered the strong incentive of near-autonomy to these independent companies and, with no overhead added on to budgets to cover operating expenses, budgets were kept at a level whereby both parties would prosper. (Gomery ‘Studio’ 191-227)

Paramount continued to retain an ‘in-house’ production operation of mostly staff producers overseeing projects. There were a couple of notable exceptions to this rule. The aforementioned Pine-Thomas B-unit developed projects with little interference from management, but with their low budgets and strong track record for profits they could be entrusted with virtual autonomy. The other was Hal Wallis. Poached from Warner Brothers in 1944 after he felt snubbed for lack of credit on the success of Casablanca (1943: Curtiz), Wallis joined Paramount with the promise of creative freedom and a very enticing financial arrangement. The belief was that Wallis could bring both prestige and commercial hits to the studio. Although he initially delivered the former with films such as Come Back Little Sheba (1952), The Rose Tattoo (1955) and The Rainmaker (1956), he tended to lose interest in artistic endeavour and instead concentrated on two of his discoveries, Jerry Lewis (firstly with Dean Martin) and Elvis Presley. (Dick 33-8) In box office terms, these were successful films, but due to the arrangement with Wallis, Paramount saw little in the way of profit. In fact, between 1954-1962 Wallis’ company had made $11 million on his films with Paramount. The studio managed a cut of under $800,000. (Dick 71-2) The reason for this was that Wallis was paid outright upon delivery of his films, whereas the studio had to make its money through distribution only, so revenues would trickle into the studio. At United Artists this was not a problem as there was little to no overhead to pay (the independent producers paid for the advertising), but for Paramount there was still an entire backlot to service, including thousands of employees. Thus Paramount were compelled to add an overhead of around 25% to any production (including independent) to cover such costs, a fee which dissuaded independent talent from working at the studio. (Dick 71-6)

In order to attract the talent, Paramount had to offer a better deal, one in which overhead was reduced (on certain productions) and separate (and often complex) deals were individually arranged. Overhead would continue to be charged (at a slightly higher rate) to in-house productions, which would then service the studio costs. As a result, Paramount began to attract the independent talent they longed for, but found they were producing films (both in-house and independent) simply to service the overhead. The following graph illustrates how Paramount ceased being a virtual in-house production studio and attempted to follow United Artists’ lead.

The process was slow and involved a continual wrestle with balancing overhead servicing with enticing talent to the company, especially when several deals with experienced producer-directors (Otto Preminger, Samuel Bronston) delivered costly failures. (Dick 59, 65)

Yet somehow the company was still making money, garnering profits in the low millions each year. The sale of theatres in the early 1950s may attribute to the profits of the those years and Paramount finally found themselves with a true blockbuster with Cecil B. DeMille’s final film, The Ten Commandments, its $34 million in rentals placed it as the second most popular film of the decade and covering the losses of many of the company’s costly failures of 1956-7. (Finler 154) The impact of television upon Hollywood was profound and many companies had waged desperate battles to fight the new medium. Paramount however, had attempted to control television, firstly by owning a share in a television network (the failed DuMont, which eventually ceased broadcast in 1955), then through the expensive theatre-television concept by which movie audiences would be entertained with television broadcasts on the big screen before the film was projected. A cumbersome exercise, it was never embraced by audiences who preferred to keep a distance between the two media. This was also the case of their ambitious ‘Telemeter’ pay-television service by which customers would purchase broadcasts by dropping coins into a box, fitted to the television and wired to closed-circuit lines. For a company so seemingly attuned to the potential of television, it seems inconceivable that, in 1958, Paramount would sell almost all of their pre-1948 film catalogue to Universal-MCA, ignoring the usual practice of leasing films to networks for short periods. Although displaying a remarkable lack of foresight for future ancillary returns, Paramount received $50 million over three years which enabled them to maintain a small profit for the 1958-60 financial years. (White 145-164)

PART FIVE: ENTER LYLES

Paramount suffered a number of financially disappointing years in the post-war period, but 1962 was the worst of all. Hatari! was the studio’s biggest hit of the year and had the eighth highest rentals of any film that year. However, it was an expensive production and due to a generous arrangement with Howard Hawks, the film’s producer-director received half the profits and a handsome dividend was also paid to its star, John Wayne. The $7 million in domestic rentals may have looked impressive in boastful trade announcements, but resulted in little return for the studio. (Dick 70-3) Of the other releases that year, only The Man who Shot Liberty Valance (John Ford) was received with any critical enthusiasm, but could only manage 25th place among the top earners of the year. (‘rentals 1962’ 5) As had been the case for a number of years, the only reliable audience-pleasers for Paramount were Jerry Lewis, but his films were becoming too expensive to produce and advertise for the capped gross they could return and Elvis Presley, whose films may have been inexpensive, but as Hal Wallis productions the producer was seeing a greater cut that the studio. (Dick 73-8)

1963 offered little improvement, with only 14 releases for the year, just over half of a decade earlier. Escape from Zahrain (Ronald Neame) and Hell for Heroes (Don Siegel) premiered late in the previous year and went into a disastrous wide release in early of 1963. The studio’s biggest hit was The Nutty Professor, but as was becoming indicative of the company’s struggles, the increasing budgets approved to director-producer-star Jerry Lewis were inverse to his declining audience base. Initially Lewis had been provided with $150,000 to promote his film (decided on a basis of its expected gross) but Lewis demanded an extra half million, threatening to sever his ties with the company if they refused. With so few consistent performers at the studio, they had little choice but to acquiesce. The Nutty Professor was scheduled for limited first runs before a quick move to the second run circuit was only able to gross to a certain (although potentially profitable) cap. Yet as a result of the overspends, this quite popular (and seemingly small-scale) film found it impossible to make a profit, a fact the company was resigned to prior to its release. Similarly, Come Blow Your Horn (Bud Yorkin) was so steeped in profit-sharing arrangements with its producers and star (Frank Sinatra) that its moderate budget of $2.8 million (entirely financed by the studio) would only be covered by rentals of $6 million. That it managed such a take proved its hit status, but with negligible returns for Paramount. Even Hud (Martin Ritt), the company’s one critical success of the year was only moderately popular with audiences. (Dick 80-108)

That same year Paramount made their second foray into importing Italian peplum adventure films. Duel of the Titans (Sergio Corbucci) was picked up by sales executive Charles Boasberg for $70,000 when on a tour of European distribution operations. Following on from The Siege of Syracuse (Pietro Francisci) the following year, these films buffered the studio’s meagre distribution calendars and turned healthy profits for their miniscule investments. They were also a sign that Paramount were now prepared to follow the lead of the likes of American International Pictures by importing low budget genre product for the second-feature and second run market. (Eames 244)

When on his excursion to Italy Boasberg was continually asked by his sales divisions why there were few, if any westerns appearing on Paramount production slates. (‘oaters’ 3) Appendix #1 clearly illustrates why the western was no longer a staple of Hollywood production. Between 1960-1963 the only westerns to prove dominant box-office performers were excessively expensive productions that barely recouped their costs. Of the remaining western releases, few made any impact with audiences. In 1963 the western and Paramount had one thing in common: both were at their lowest ebb.

Yet in Italy the genre was far from dead – in fact it was more popular than ever. The resurgence in the genre was a trend felt across Europe and one which had led to a boom in western pulp literature, clothing and fashion. The dearth of new American westerns in cinemas had led to the defunct Republic’s back catalogue of B-westerns being purchased by enterprising distributors and re-released with commercial success. Even more innovative were some West German producers who began producing a series of smash-hit, locally made westerns featuring faded American performers. In Italy Buffalo Bill Hero of the West (1964: Massimo Dallamano) was in production and director Sergio Leone was in the process of arranging and Italian western of his own. With some foresight, American producer Lester Welch had already taken advantage of the European market (and its various beneficial co-production agreements) by shooting a pair of westerns back-to-back in Spain for international release by MGM. (‘U.S. Westerns’ 3)

Boasberg took the western request back to Paramount in Hollywood where initially the plan was to film a low-budget western in Italy, with American leads and key creative talent. However the location was changed to the studio’s Hollywood backlot. With so few films due to be shot on the studio premises, a large amount of space and employees were being under-utilised and by filming on the lot the studio could roll its much needed overhead into the production cost. Paramount also had a ready-made western main street available that had been constructed for the hit TV series Bonanza (1959-1972), for which NBC television rented Paramount’s studio space. As with the television series, any necessary location shooting for the proposed film would occur at nearby Vasquez Rocks National Park. (‘oaters’ 3)

Paramount management approached a long time mid-ranking associate producer named A.C. Lyles with the proposal. Lyles had worked with Paramount since the early 1930s, firstly at their theatres and then moving to the studio. In time he became head of publicity for Pine-Thomas and in the process learnt the rigours of how to make B-films on a tight budget and how to sell them to theatres. After Pine-Thomas ceased production, Lyles remained with Paramount, dividing his time between associate production on large scale films and independently producing his own for the company. He also had a stint in television, producing the first series of Rawhide in 1959. (Buscombe 327)

Told that they wanted a western as quickly and as cheaply as possible, Lyles immediately accepted, stating that he had a screenplay ready to film, written by veteran crime-pulp author Steve Fisher. Titled Invitation to a Hanging, it went into production in August of 1963 with a ten day shooting schedule and a budget of under $500,000. Lyles raised the finance himself, with Paramount due to purchase the finished product and A.C. Lyles productions taking a cut of any profits (perpetual copyright would be jointly held). (oaters 3)

Rory Calhoun, a star of programmer western features in the 1950s and the short-lived The Texan (1959-1960) television series was chosen as the leading man, but was replaced shortly before filming commenced by Dale Robertson, whose career in westerns had followed a similar path to Calhoun’s except that his television series (Tales of Wells Fargo 1957-1962) had been far more successful. (Buscombe 380) The director was William F. Claxton, a former B-film editor who had worked successfully as a television director since the 1950s, including for a number of westerns, including Rawhide, Tales of Wells Fargo and Rifleman. (Buscombe 381) In fact it appears that Claxton, having spent most of 1963 filming episodes filming Bonanza, barely had to move his director’s chair to film Invitation to a Hanging. In a number of interviews Lyles has explained that no actor ever turned him down when he offered them a part in his films. He credits this with the friendships he had made through his long experience in the industry coupled with the fact that these performers were just hungry to work again – not for the money (Lyles paid them nominal fees) but for a return to the sort of roles and on-set family atmosphere they’d so enjoyed during the Hollywood’s classical era. Such an explanation may allude to an estimation that performers were of a certain vintage. And such a guess would be correct. Lyles populated his casts with fading stars of the classical era, along with recognisable character performers. Appendix #3 displays a full listing of those leading players plus any supporting actors who appeared in more than one of Lyles’ westerns. It shows that Lyles had a stock company regularly rotated through films. It would be churlish to doubt the producer’s claims that friendship was the key to the familiar casts, but there would probably have been the economic prerogative of the veteran performers being professional on set and not required many time (and stock)-consuming takes to complete their scenes. It also added to the ability to sell the films, with the familiar names impressively filling a cast list on advertising and creating immediate audience recognition. The casting was certainly recognised by critics, as their generally lukewarm responses were quite often enlivened with nostalgic fondness of the casting. Then successful television series that rejuvenated their careers. During the classical Hollywood era major studios would often use their B-units to train promising young talent. A.C. Lyles Productions may have not been a B-unit, but the fact that it very rarely featured young performers (or characters) among its casts is indicative of their utility at the time. These were stop-gap productions, made to fill soundstages , create overhead, exploit an overseas market opening and bolster domestic release schedules. Like Paramount itself, they looked to the moment, with thought of the future. Yet there is a trend evident in the careers of the many of the leading players. A second tier stardom in during the classical period but a loss of direction once they were forced to work freelance, followed by a successful television series that rejuvenated their careers. So although young talent rarely figured in Lyles’ productions, younger audiences would be familiar with the veterans’ recent television work, whilst their parents would be attracted by the stars of their youth.

Invitation to a Hanging was retitled Law of the Lawless after completion and released first in Italy in November of 1963. According to Lyles, by the time it has finished its Italian run it had recouped its negative cost. (Marks 43) The film was released domestically the following year, with the studio offering a number of methods to sell the production, including radio spots, TV trailers and the standard sets of lobby cards an posters, including a billboard-sized 24 sheet, usually reserved for blockbuster productions. The ad copy – provided as free press ‘stories’ for the print media, emphasised the film’s all star cast and its action-packed narrative. Over twenty admat options were available for print advertising, including one stating that Law of the Lawless had been held over for its fifth week. (pressbook 5) It is highly unlikely such an ad was ever used. The film’s premiere first-run engagement appearing to be in Los Angles beginning March 18th as a support to Paramount’s Son of Captain Blood, a European co-produced, low-budget swashbuckler that featured the gimmick of Sean Flynn, the son of Errol, in the titular role. According to Variety, business was ‘slow’ and the engagement only lasted a week. The lacklustre boxoffice was repeated as the double-feature made its way across eight Midwestern cities in first run engagements, including a multiple run at six Kansas City drive-ins, the engagement’s only healthy box-office returns.

It took Law of the Lawless five months to open in New York, without a first-run engagement and now supporting Robinson Crusoe on Mars (Son of Captain Blood did not appear in America’s largest city until the end of the year and in true co-feature style it had by then been dropped to the bottom of the bill). This new double feature was premiered in New York as part of Paramount’s ‘showcase’ presentation method, first used by the studio in June of that year for Love With a Proper Stranger (1963: Richard Mulligan). Sixteen screens were used and $98,000 was the week’s take. Compared to the slow returns during the film’s first run releases, this was hefty and quick injection into the distributor’s revenue stream. (‘Par takes turn’ 5)

And at this point of time, Paramount needed all the revenue they could find. Two years earlier the studio had committed to investing in The Fall of the Roman Empire, an Anthony Mann directed epic to be shot in Spain. Although Paramount management had concerns over the screenplay, they did not want to pass on a potential El Cid (1961) that had been a blockbuster hit for producer Samuel Bronston and Allied Artists, the company that financed it. Paramount paid $5 million for the North American distribution rights only – an amount that would have been nearly impossible to recoup, even if the film was a success. Such an argument remained moot as The Fall of the Roman Empire was a colossal disaster, netting under $2 million in rentals for the studio, with little of that left after paying for its expensive roadshow campaign. Paramount also had to endure a $3 million loss on Paris When it Sizzles, a romantic comedy starring William Holden and Audrey Hepburn. It was fortunate that the studio had entered a five-picture agreement with Joseph E. Levine and his Embassy production company. The first film from the deal, The Carpetbaggers, was among the year’s top money earners and allowed the company to show a modest profit for the year. Two years later, after delivering mostly hits and all of the salacious variety to the company, Levine was to depart fearing Paramount would collapse. Unable to convince him to stay, the company could only watch in disbelief as Levine’s moderately budgeted The Graduate saw his new distributor, Columbia, share in nearly $40 million of rentals from the year’s blockbuster hit. (Dick 67-91)

Even before Law of the Lawless had opened domestically, Lyles had another film completed, Stagecoach to Hell, made immediately after Paramount commissioned Lyles to produce a further four films, based on his first effort’s success in Europe. Retitled Stage to Thunder Rock, the second of Lyles’ westerns was once again directed by William F. Claxton, this time from a screenplay by Charles Wallace, a writer for television’s Tales of Wells Fargo and Zane Grey Theater.

Greeted with similar reviews to Lyles last film, Stage to Thunder Rock opened in June of 1964 simultaneously in Providence and Seattle, ironically as the support to Robinson Crusoe in Mars. Business was pallid, but it picked up substantially when the western was used to fill the bill on Roustabout (John Rich) in Los Angeles (managing two first-run weeks) and The Disorderly Orderly (for three weeks) in Portland. As had been proven since the late 1950s, Paramount’s only two reliable stars were Elvis Presley and Jerry Lewis and as was becoming evident, a supporting co-feature is only as successful as the main attraction at the top of the bill. For New York in November the successful Presley-Lyles combination was retained with a showcase presentation on 23 hardtops and a drive-in. For its only true first-run theatre in the group (The Forum on 47th Street), Roustabout screened without support.

In June of 1964 it was reported that A.C. Lyles was the only in-house filmmaker on Paramount’s lot. (‘quickened 3) Studio Production Head George Weltner hoped to add more, but it was now clear that the studio’s backlot was hopelessly under-ulitised and existing as rental space for television production. In 1962, Lew Wasserman, the head of Universal-International had wanted a new production space for his Revue television company. He approached Paramount with the notion of buying their entire backlot and transferring Universal’s feature production there, and moving the Revue arm onto the old Universal soundstages. Although the idea did appeal to some on the Paramount board, as it would leave the company without overhead and allow it to simply work as a distributor, the offer was declined. A year later Desilu Productions made similar overtures, to no avail. The studio was still proclaiming that while it was continuing to turn a profit there was no need to for such drastic action. Indeed the company did continue to make a profit, but in 1965 it was finally revealed that from 1962-65 all profits reported as from film revenue were infact losses topped up by $23 million worth of leasing the residual rights of failed films to television broadcasters and disguising the generous income as production revenue. After its premature and inexplicable sale of its pre-1948 catalouge to television in 1958, the company was now hanging on grimly to its post-1948 features and rationing them out on short term network broadcasts. Paramount was hoping in vain for the emergence of pay-television when company could cash in on these over-200 titles. Yet such a viable format was still a decade away and the stock of the company was growing at a negligible rate compared to the market value of the films in the vaults, ready for syndication and, for some of the lesser titles, in danger of losing their immediacy if not soon into the marketplace. When these details were revealed at a shareholders meeting in 1965, the corporate vultures began circling. (Dick 118-121)

In April of 1964 Lyles put Young Fury into production, with Christian Nyby directing. A former editor, Nyby is best remembered for his directing debut, The Thing From Another World (1951). Yet for Lyles it was probably more pertinent that Nyby was a regular director of Bonanza who had also had stints on Gunsmoke and Rawhide. Once again Steve Fisher contributed the screenplay. It was two months later that Paramount’s President Barney Balaban announced that the studio was “not in the business of making B-movies” (Mesca 13) and that he refused to dilute his slate with such fare, aiming for only productions in the A-bracket. Technically Babalan was correct as nobody in Hollywood was making true B-films, sold on a flat rate to exhibitors. However, as he was describing the studio’s upcoming productions, shareholders must have wondered how such upcoming titles as Lyles’ westerns, teen surf-capades The Girls on the Beach and Beachball, British horrors The Skull and Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors and the Italian peplum Revenge of the Gladiators counted as true A-bracket fare. (Eames 249-260) As all of these were pickups from independent producers, Paramount was not actually ‘making’ these films, but then again, almost all of their releases at this time had independent involvement as between 1963-65, of the 54 films released with the Paramount logo in the United States, only one was a completely in-house studio production.

Yet, with the big-budget fare not making money, it was these low-budget releases that were bringing in modest profits for the company (although far from offsetting the extravagant failures). In September that year it was reported that double features, having been out of favour with exhibitors since early in the decade, were now making a comeback. (Kalish ‘doubles’ 7) The popular showcase concept, that had now spread as to Los Angeles, Chicago and Boston, was acknowledged as the main reason for the popularity of the double feature, as was the multiple second-run release, ulitised for lower-budget and independent fare. With independents and studios all importing more foreign genre features than ever, there was a lucrative (although limited) market opportunity available.

By the time Young Fury was released in the US in March of 1965 as a support to the science fiction thriller The Crack in the World, Lyles already had fulfilled his four-film contract by having a further two films completed. Black Spurs was filmed in September of 1964 and by the end of December, shooting had finished on Town Tamer.

Another from the prolific pen of Steve Fisher, Black Spurs was the first Lyles film to be directed by R. G. Springsteen, a prolific B-western director of the 1950s who had also recently spent time with Bonanza. Paramount took the unusual step of premiering Black Spurs in the US at New York’s grand 3665-seat Paramount theatre, the studio’s former flagship venue. Its $28,000 first week take may have seemed impressive, but was only rated as ‘fair’ by Variety. This was due to the fact that the western was playing as a support to a live ‘rock and soul show’ with tickets at substantially higher prices. Although a regular method of screening films in the 1920s-30s, live acts were rare accompaniment for feature films by the mid-1960s, although the Radio City Music Hall continued the tradition – and successfully too – with high profile studio productions after the stage show. Unfortunately for The Paramount theatre, Black Spurs was one of the last films to screen at the cinema and, after a period of closure, it was demolished the following year. In June, Black Spurs would enjoy a successful showcase run in Boston as a second feature to The Family Jewels, a Jerry Lewis director-star comedy and then in Los Angeles, on showcase with the John Wayne western The Sons of Katie Elder (Henry Hathaway). By the time Black Spurs was released in the United States, its female lead, Linda Darnell, had perished in a fire. Although she admitted her final film was a “ten day quickie”, it was her first feature in six years after battling alcoholism (Davis 247). Both The New York Times and Variety noted that it was the one notable aspect of the film. (17 & 9)

According to its pressbook, (5) “Action, excitement and robust drama makes Town Tamer an unforgettably exciting film of western adventure!” Lesley Selander, a director of mostly B-westerns since the early 1930s took directing duties on this production. Adapted by Frank Gruber from his own novel, it had apparently once been optioned as a project for Gary Cooper.

In the summer of 1965, Town Tamer was part of Paramount’s most ambitious showcasing endeavour. Having done a deal with the RKO chain of theatres in New York, the company announced a summer program of showcasing events as a way of displaying their renewed production vigour. Each engagement was to play in close to 100 theatres in what was the most saturated single city first-run yet.

Town Tamer’s showcase consisted of 94 screens (including 18 drive-ins), but it was reported that Lyle’s film was pulled from many engagement’s by the weekend due to the inordinate length of the program (In Harm’s Way had a running time of 165 mins).

Interestingly, Town Tamer’s next listed North American first run screening was supporting Universal’s Charlton Heston costume epic The War Lord (Franklin J. Schaffer) for two weeks in Denver (for excellent business). Paramount then used it as a second feature for the British-South African co-production of Sands of the Kalahari (Cy Enfield) but it finally made showcase in Boston and Seattle below the bill with the auctioneer Red Line 7000 (Howard Hawks).

By this time it was evident that Lyles’ westerns ran to a narrative and stylistic formula. From the viewing of seven of his productions, one can almost plot the narrative arc on a chart. Each film opens with an outdoor action sequence which introduces the hero. He may be fighting Indians (Red Tomahawk; Apache Uprising) or criminals (Johnny Reno; Buckskin). He then arrives in a town where he is treated suspiciously by some of the locals, with a street fistfight (Apache Uprising, Buckskin) or a barroom brawl occurring (Johnny Reno, Black Spurs, Hostile Guns). Tended to by a caring woman who is either a saloon worker or with a salacious past, the hero then must reluctantly take on a law-making role in the town, due to the weak, ineffectual sheriff being unable to control the villain. Eventually, in another location sequence, the hero and villain with have a chase / shootout / fistfight, with the hero winning. He then leaves town, usually accompanied by the woman.

With storylines that could be efficiently told in a tight 75 minutes, the Lyles westerns move out of the B-film length by adding superfluous sequences (such as trying to convince the female gambling hostess to part with her Gatling Guns in Red Tomahawk which she eventually agrees to with little explanation). Lyles films also include extraneous characters (such as the hired gun with a conscience in Buckskin and the convicts in Hostile Guns) who each require a backstory and provide it in lengthy dialogue-laden sequences. In fact, Lyles even noted in the Buckskin pressbook that he ensured every character had at least three strong scenes. (5)

Stylistically and technically, the Lyles films are grounded in a tele-visual sensibility. Most action occurs indoors on studio sets, with even a number of supposed exteriors being filmed on soundstages, its film stock and lighting poorly matched with the location-filmed establishing shots. There is something almost surreal about the stage-bound nature of many of these sequences, with several shadows being cast by performers as they stand on incorrectly lit sets, among lifeless shrubbery brought in from the prop-department. Scenes are blocked with such consistency that a two-way conversation in a room will have the characters move in a ritualistic manner around the room, in order to benefit the two cameras covering the sequence. With an establishing shot followed by a series of two-shots, a stationery conversation is given little visual flair. In one scene, in Johnny Reno, the gunman and saloon girl have a conversation that contains 23 cuts back and forth between two-shots, with only the establishing shot being used a second time in an effort to break the visual monotony.

Indeed, the Lyles films appear to have been created in the editing room from the smallest amount of coverage possible. The following table compares five Lyles films with a number of other westerns – Paradise Canyon (1935: Carl Pierson); Dodge City (1939: Michael Curtiz); Storm Over Wyoming (1950: Lesley Selander) No Name on the Bullet (1959: Jack Arnold) and The Sons of Katie Elder (1965: Henry Hathaway). As each film was carefully viewed, the number of edits were recorded, as was the number of new camera set-ups within the film (those that had not occurred within the past three scenes). The number of edits is divided by the number of new set ups, resulting in an average number of edits per set-up. As the table illustrates, a B-western of the 1930s, one from 1950, big budget westerns from 1939 and 1965 and a standard town western co-feature from 1959 all manage to less frugal with their coverage. It must be noted that such a formula is not supposed to be an indicator of quality, but it does indicate that Lyles filmmakers got as much out of their limited coverage as possible and preferred as few set-ups as they could manage. The high average on his films would be due to the scene that was earlier described – so many characters, in so many conversations, with so much backstory and exposition to tell.

TITLE

MINS

EDITS

NEW SETUPS

AVERAGE EDITS PER SETUP

Paradise Canyon

52

553

318

1.73

Dodge City

104

913

571

1.59

Storm over Wyoming

58

618

345

1.79

No Name on the Bullet

77

616

331

1.86

Law of the Lawless

87

609

198

3.07

Sons of Katie Elder

117

830

554

1.49

Apache Uprising

87

613

312

1.96

Red Tomahawk

82

782

304

2.57

Johnny Reno

83

718

308

2.33

Hostile Guns

90

691

309

2.23

The tele-visual blandness is offset by all the Lyles westerns being shot in Techniscope, a low cost, widescreen format which did not require special lens. Instead, the film stock was then enlarged to suit 2.35:1 projection. Much favoured by Italian western filmmakers due to its grainy aesthetic (caused by the lack of clarity in the enlarging process), Lyles was one of the first filmmakers to embrace the technology. (Holben 96-107)

In May of 1965 Lyles had his contract extended to a further ten films in 30 months. The report referred to a contract for “ten colour tinters”, which reflects their formulaic, production-line quality. (‘a.c. lyles’ 3) Apache Uprising (filmed in April of 1965) was the first of the new commission. Adapted by Harry Sanford and Max Lamb from their novel Way Station, R.G. Springsteen was directing again. However, after a four hardtop and two drive-in showcasing in Toronto supporting The Naked Prey in March of 1966, the film only received one more first run engagement, with the independent western Forty-Acre Feud. It was quickly followed into theatres by Johnny Reno, released in May of 1966 to a 6 Drive-in multiple in Toronto, second billed to Night of the Grizzly. In Detroit in July it had a week of good business supporting a musical live performance.

In March of 1966, Paramount was purchased by the oil company Gulf & Western, whose chairman saw the studio as an ideal component for his company’s conglomerate. Initially interested in the film library, he considering closing down the production unit and concentrating on just distribution. Robert Evans was appointed vice-president in charge of production and was given the seemingly impossible task of turning the studio into a money-making venture, allowing it a reprieve. At the shareholders’ meeting that year he stated that capitalisation was in place for a new series of expensive productions, including a number of European and British co-productions. The Lyles westerns would continue due to their European popularity. (‘evans’ 5) Indeed the western was still popular in Italy. It was reported in August that year that there were 24 westerns playing in Rome theatres, compared to only six in New York. The majority of these westerns were European productions and, insofar as their advertising, they were disguised as Hollywood product. The following four Italian one-sheet posters illustrate how, with their iconic imagery and promotion of American performers in the cast, it was difficult to tell the authentic Hollywood (Lyles) western from the European variant. (The films depicted are Fort Utah, Navajo Joe (1966: Sergio Corbucci), Johnny Reno and Cost of Dying (1968: Sergio Merolle).

Yet the market there was changing, with a particular sadism and excessive sex and violence evident in the Italian westerns as they reached a saturation point in the Italian industry. (‘Rome’ 15)

In May of 1966 A.C. Lyles was presented with the Golden Spurs award for his “extraordinary contribution to western lore, through the medium of films”. His latest production, Waco (directed by Springsteen from a Steve Fisher screenplay) received its world premiere at the Reno Rodeo in June, with stars Jane Russell, Wendell Corey and Brian Donlevy promoting the film by co-marshalling the rodeo’s parade. Putting a little more effort than usual into promoting a Lyles’ film, Paramount even released a single of Lorne Greene singing the title song. Variety was not impressed by the film, calling it a “run of the treadmill western” and singling out Howard Keel for “Particularly bad acting”.

In New York, it appeared in a saturation showcase of over seventy screens, including two first runs. According to Robert Evans, the main feature Assault on a Queen was so poor they had to get rid of it as quickly as possible. (167) Interestingly, Waco represents the only Lyles film to receive a feature-only booking in Variety’s listings. In Minneapolis it managed a week for a ‘small’ take of $4000.

From this point, Lyles’ westerns received fewer first-run North American screenings. Paramount was heavily investing in production and increasing its European dealings. From 1966-9 over half of the studio’s releases involved foreign investment, but even domestically production was increasing. Sixty-five films were released in just 1967-8 and A.C. Lyles was no longer the only low budget independent producer at Paramount. Horror specialist William Castle and family filmmaker Ivan Tors had also joined the lot and their films were often taking the places of Lyles’ westerns on double-bills around the country. For the first two years of his contracts, A.C. Lyles managed to fill some gaps in Paramount’s bare production slates. Now, with a new management team in place, committed to increased production (with the capital to follow through on such promises), the need for Lyles and his films was no longer imperative. (Dick 167-188)

Red Tomahawk, filmed in May of 1966 was another Springsteen directorial effort form a Fisher screenplay. It opened in January of 1967 and it took until July to register its third (and seemingly last) first run supporting engagement. However, in February Red Tomahawk, did ‘big’ business in Detroit, supporting the ‘Jewel Box Revue’ live music act.

Filmed in July of 1966 as “Fort Siege”, Fort Utah was Lesley Selander’s 150th feature film as a director, a fact suggested as a selling point in the film’s pressbook, along with such promotional ideas as having men in western garb stroll the city streets, their backs adorned with signs “which plug and credit the film, as well as your theatre and playdate”.

Yet apart from a solitary engagement in Cincinnati in September of 1967, it appears that there were no other first run theatres wanting to accept the film.

By this time Lyles already had two other films completed – Huntsville and Buckskin. Although it would appear that Lyles films were no longer making an impact in the United States, they presumably must have continued to do well in overseas territories, as Paramount extended his deal again, for a further ten films. The first of these, Bushwhackers, was due to film in December of 1967, but the fact that the next scheduled production was an espionage drama titled Rogues’ Gallery shows that Lyles (and Paramount’s) thoughts had moved from the western to other exploitable genres. Rouges’ Gallery was made, but released directly to television. (‘lyles no time’ 3) ( For the second run marketplace where Lyles now appeared to be working, he had to compete not only with American films (studio and independent) but also imported fare. When he began his cycle in 1963 his films appeared curiously nostalgic, four years later, with violent Italian westerns now an accepted part of the cinema mainstream and with Sam Peckinpah on pre-production on The Wild Bunch, Lyles’ ‘oaters’, having changed little over the course of a dozen productions, must appeared as anachronistic relics of a long-gone era. Lyles had mentioned that “Saddle Fire” was due to be filmed in mid-1968. It never eventuated. Nor is it clear whether an announced illustrated dictionary of western slang to be compiled by Lyles and accompanied by a television special ever materialised. (‘inside stuff’ 18)

Huntsville was retitled Hostile Guns and although it is difficult to locate an American release date, an unfavourable review in Variety in July of 1967 would indicate it played in cinemas around that time, nearly a year after it was filmed. Yet another Springsteen / Fisher collaboration and as per usual the key selling points for the film were its star cas

t. In February of 1968 Variety complained of studios no longer previewing second feature films for the press and that their reviewers were forced to seek them out on general release (Byron). One of the titles mentioned was Arizona Bushwhackers (formerly Bushwhackers), which they found playing in a “42nd street grindhouse”. An investigation of the New York newspapers of the time failed to locate the cinema and nor does there appear to be any engagements listed for the film at all. The last American film to be directed by Lesley Selander, the pressbook offers ad copy stating the film was the “veteran director’s latest hit!” The screenwriting duties were undertaken by Steve Fisher and the pressbook also maintained that Arizona Bushwhackers was “free of western clichés!” It is doubtful such a description has ever been sincerely used – then or now – about an A.C. Lyles western.

The final Lyles western, Buckskin, was reviewed in May of 1968 in Variety and like the previous two releases, appears tohave had scant distribution in the United States. Buckskin was directed by Michael Moore (a former editor with mostly television direction experience) from a screenplay by Michael Fisher, the son of regular Lyles’ writer, Steve. Although shot back-to-back with Arizona Buswhackers, Buckskin was the first completed of the pair, yet inexplicably, the last released.

THAT’S A WRAP.

Paramount sold the Lyles output to television among various film packages in the late 1960s – early 1970s. By then it was estimated that an adequate quality film, suitable for prime-time broadcast, could potentially earn a million dollars by the time in was sold for syndication. (‘western fare’ 7) With their well-known casts, lack of violence and sex and a general tele-visual aspect, the Lyles westerns were suited to small screens throughout the next decade. With such potential evident by the mid-1960s it is possible to surmise that Paramount continued producing the Lyles westerns with such a future market in mind. When Robert Evans arrived at Paramount he stated that there were eight studios in Hollywood and Paramount were ranked tenth. (‘Confessions’ 83) By 1970, when The Godfather became the highest grossing film of all time and won the studio their first Best Picture Oscar since 1952, the company was back at number one and the Lyles westerns were long forgotten.

But for a few years they helped an ailing studio survive.

If this post has succeeded in its aims it has explained not only the reasons for why the Lyles films were produced, but it has also placed them at the locus of several divergent streams of a troubled industry, proving that the film industry (production distribution and exhibition) is never static.

For an industry once finely attuned to the most acute demands of the ticket-buying public, the 1960s found Hollywood now uncertain of its audience and with little idea how to locate it. In the case of the Lyles’ westerns it was a matter of seeking offshore viewers – those still appreciative of classical genre product. Yet, for their domestic release Paramount were still attempting to find the lost audience and with scant success, tacking these low-budget features onto the tail of a variety of productions and only finding an acceptable market in the form of showcase exhibition.

Yet although their merits as artistic endeavours are debatable for forums elsewhere, the Lyles westerns remain an important exhibit of a tumultuous period, their humble aesthetic belying the desperate measures that necessitated their production, creating one final gasp of the traditional Hollywood western when the rest of Hollywood had bid it farewell.

THE LYLE’S WESTERNS – MAJOR CAST MEMBERS AND

BRIEF PLOT SYNOPSES

Stage to Thunder Rock (1964: William F. Claxton) starring Barry Sullivan, Marilyn Maxwell and Scott Brady. Plot: Sheriff tried to keep a bank robber under guard in a stagecoach station full of people eager to steal the loot.

Young Fury (1965: Christian Nyby) starring Rory Calhoun, Virginia Mayo and William Bendix. Plot: Fugitive finds his son is part of a young gang terrorizing a town. He must stop them.

Town Tamer (1965: Lesley Selander) starring Dana Andrews, Pat O’Brien, Terry Moore and Lon Chaney Jnr. Plot: After his wife is killed by a bullet meant for him, a gunman declares war on the killers.

Apache Uprising (1966: Springsteen) starring Rory Calhoun, Corrine Calvet, John Russell and Lon Chaney Jnr. Plot: When he decides to ride shotgun on a stagecoach, a gunman must contend with robbers, corrupt businessmen and rampaging Indians.

Johnny Reno (1966: Springsteen) starring Dana Andrews, Jane Russell, Lyle Bettinger and Lon Chaney Jnr. Plot: A marshal captures a fugitive and takes him to town. He finds the man is innocent and the real villains are the local landowner and his cronies. They are determined to kill the framed man, the marshal determined to save him.

Waco (1966: Springsteen) starring Howard Keel, Jane Russell, Wendell Corey and Brian Donlevy. Plot: Townsfolk release a gunman from jail to protect them from a gang that are terrorizing them.

Red Tomahawk (1967: Springsteen) starring Howard Keel, Joan Caulfield, Broderick Crawford and Wendell Corey. After the massacre at Little Big Horn, a government agent rides into nearby Deadwood to warn them of impending attack. Finding Gatling guns in the town, he tries to get them to a besieged cavalry platoon.

Fort Utah (1967: Selander) starring John Ireland, Virginia Mayo, John Russell and Scott Brady. When a mutinous cavalry sergeant incites Indians to attack a fort, a couple of westerners team up to defend the women inside and capture the troublemaker.

Hostile Guns (1967: Springsteen) starring George Montgomery, Yvonne De Carlo, Tab Hunter and Brian Donlevy. Plot: A veteran marshal enlists a hot-headed deputy to help him transport a coach of prisoners across Texas. The brother of one of the convicts is in pursuit.

Arizona Bushwhackers (1968: Selander) starring Howard Keel, Yvonne De Carlo, Scott Brady and Brian Donlevy. Plot: Due to his civil war past, a gunman is shunned in an Arizona town. However he succeeds in keeping the law.

Buckskin (1968: Michael D. Moore) starring Barry Sullivan, Joan Caulfield, Wendell Corey and Lon Chaney Jnr. A widowed marshal travelling with his half-Indian son confronts prejudice as he attempts to stop a ruthless mine-owner from damming a town’s water supply.

Buckskin (1968: Michael D. Moore) starring Barry Sullivan, Joan Caulfield, Wendell Corey and Lon Chaney Jnr. A widowed marshal travelling with his half-Indian son confronts prejudice as he attempts to stop a ruthless mine-owner from damming a town’s water supply.

LEADING PLAYERS IN LYLES’ WESTERNS

NOTE: The second column header, ‘LW’ stands for the number of Lyles’ westerns the performer appeared in.

All of the performers made numerous guest appearances in television series. Those listed are where the performer had an ongoing leading role.

The final column only intends to provide a brief description to when the performer was most popular and the level of fame they achieved.

RECURRING OR NOTABLE SUPPORT PLAYERS IN

LYLES’ WESTERNS

BIBLIOGRAPHY

“A.C. Lyles Begins 10 for Par, Never heard of Freud but loyal to Dick Arlen and Virginia Mayo.” Variety 26th July 1967: 5.

“A.C. Lyles Begins 10 for Par, Never heard of Freud but loyal to Dick Arlen and Virginia Mayo.” Variety 26th July 1967: 5.

Boddy, William. “Sixty Million Viewers Can’t Be Wrong: The Rise And Fall Of The Television Western.” Back In The Saddle Again: New Essays On The Western. Ed. Ed Buscombe & Roberta E. Pearson. London: Bfi, 1998. 119-141.

Compared to film scholars of years past, modern-day cinema historians and theorists are graced with a certain distinct advantage. The passing of time allows theories to be proposed, argued and established (and occasionally dismissed and replaced). Particular films are recused from obscurity, their merits reassessed as they are viewed with fresh eyes years after their brief moment of contemporeality. Conversely, others once regarded as significant examples of their form may fall by the critical wayside as the later consensus finds that time has been less than kind to the measure of its quality. Knowledge is accumulated as facts are exhumed. Social, political and cultural notions are formed. It was always known what came before a particular film, but the benefit of temporal distance allows us to see what transpired afterwards. As a result, tendencies of filmmakers may be evaluated, national cinemas characterised, and films slotted into genres, then trends and cycles. It is then, theoretically possible to take any film from a bygone era and categorise it in a number of ways, placing it as a piece in the vast, never-ending puzzle of cinema past.

Yet from time to time there appears the occasional aberration within cinema history – films, trends, decisions and other aspects that are seemingly unaccounted for and, upon a cursory examination, defy explanation. This thesis will attempt to deal with one overlooked series of films that so far have been relegated to little more than footnotes within published cinema histories.

In August of 1964 a new film engagement opened in New York cinemas for a week.

We shall ignore the striking artwork of Robinson Crusoe on Mars and instead pay attention to the second feature on the engagement, Law of the Lawless. For the cinema scholar, on a cursory glance it would appear that there is little to explain. A ‘B-western’ rounding out a double feature. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of such films made, so what makes Law of the Lawless worthy of any more attention?

It is a reasonable assumption to begin with, considering that the film has not yet been critically revived. Nor for that matter has there been any reappraisal of the director’s career. William F. Claxton was a veteran editor of B-films before enjoying a busy career in the early 1950s as a television director. Dotted through his filmography are a handful of features, mostly low budget westerns. Of some interest is the film’s cast, which includes Dale Robertson who had made a number of moderately budgeted westerns in the 1950s before starring the in the popular television series Tales of Wells Fargo which ran from 1957-1962. The supporting cast included large notably large number of performers who were once either stars or in-demand character performers during the years of the Hollywood studio system – Yvonne De Carlo, William Bendix, John Agar, Barton MacLane, Bruce Cabot and Lon Chaney among them. A synopsis of the plot does not offer any particular hints of this being an unusual genre entry –

Judge Clem Rogers arrives in the Kansas town of Stone Junction where he is to preside over a murder trial. Known as ‘the hanging judge’ due to his predilection for handing out death sentences, the town is beginning to fill with various gunman wanting to kill Rogers as revenge for relatives and friends he sent to the gallows. To complicate matters the accused in his current trail is his childhood friend whose wealthy father controls Stone Junction, a town divided over whether justice should be served or if the corrupt status quo should remain. (Pressbook 1)

Judging by the description, it would appear that Law of the Lawless qualifies as a ‘town western’, the genre cycle that was popularised in the early 1950s by successful features such as The Gunfighter (1950: Henry King) and High Noon (1952: Fred Zinnemann). In The Crowded Prairie, Michael Coyne describes the town western as one in which the “heroism and integrity of a solitary gunman is contrasted with the cowardice, hypocrisy and avarice of the local community”. This is in direct contrast to the celebratory westerns of the 1930s and 1940s in which a gunfighter would eradicate villainy from a town, much to the populace’s joy. As the hero usually left in the final scenes, the viewer is left believing that the town will now thrive and prosper and have the necessary fortitude to keep the town clean themselves. In the town western the mood is far more cynical – the hero will eventually rid the town of villainy, but he leaves with a certain amount of disgust, wondering if the town was really worth saving at all. Some theorists (such as Coyne and Loy) have detected certain subtexts running through the town-western cycle, believing them to be allegories of contemporary small-town America. A number of these films depicted paranoia, small-mindedness, corruption, racism, greed and distrust as among the obstacles the lawman must face from the townsfolk. The potential for such thematic explorations may have appealed to filmmakers in the 1950s as allegories of that Cold-War era, but for the studios the town western offered the convenience of a quality western on a lower budget. With an emphasis on dialogue over action and many scenes occurring indoors, these westerns could have a greater number of scenes shot on soundstages, not incurring the difficulties of location shooting and thereby shortening the schedule and reducing the budget. (67-74)

That Law of the Lawless is a town western should be the first clue to its unique nature. For although the cycle was popular in the 1950s, but the turn of the decade it had had lost favour. Certainly there were some town westerns being produced, but these were generally for the completion of contracts of stars losing their lustre. Among these later entries were those starring Audie Murphy for producer Gordon Kaye at Universal. (Loy 29-34) It was rare to find any new town westerns commissioned by that time. Several new trends were evident in the genre at this time, including the ‘professional western’, in which a band of fortune seekers embarked on a mission, usually south of the border. Inspired by Vera Cruz (1954: Robert Aldrich), these films were best exemplified by The Magnificent Seven (1960: John Sturges) and The Professionals (1965: Richard Brooks). (Carroll 46-63) The ‘contemporary westerns’ such as The Misfits (1961: John Huston) and Lonely are the Brave (1962: David Miller) depicted modern cowboys unable to function in a society that no longer values individuality and that has no frontier left to conquer. (Coyne 105-115)

Law of the Lawless was released in 1964, not only after the town western was waning, but two years after a pair of elegiac westerns were released. Ride the High Country (1962: Sam Peckinpah) saw two stalwarts of the genre, Randolph Scott and Joel McRea retire from the screen and take three decades of western values with them. John Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) pondered the notion of whether the myth of the west (both in cinema and the national consciousness) was actually more desirable than the more mundane truth. His players were another pair of veterans, John Wayne and James Stewart. Long since youthful performers, they aged into old men by the time the film had finished. It seemed as if the traditional western was in its last throes. For the fan of the time it seemed as if the options were either cowpokes in modern guise embodying western values or authentic gunmen with a more mercenary code. When one factors in that 1964 was the year that A Fistful of Dollars, Sergio Leone’s violent and cynical Italian western was released, then Law of the Lawless does appear more than a little anachronistic.

For that matter, westerns of all types had lost then venerable status in Hollywood. The following graph charts the number of westerns made in the United States between 1926-1970, distinguishing between studio and independent productions and stating what percentage the genre constituted of total film output each year. It also provides the number of first run television series playing on American television

It is clear that, after a lull in the 1940s, the genre rode a wave of production highs for a short period in the early 1950s. Total westerns fell dramatically late in the decade as the number of television series exploded in popularity. Yet the drop for the major studios was less severe than for the independents, who found their low budget market stolen by the small screen. However all lines on the chart begin to dip and the general record low occurs in 1963. Only 11 westerns were made in the United States that year with just six by the majors. In 1953 there were 98 American westerns released. It is true that the overall output of Hollywood decreased in that period, but when placed in context the numbers represent a huge reduction. For while westerns accounted for 27% of total releases in 1953, it constituted a mere 9% a decade later. The blame cannot be laid entirely with television, for that medium had also lost interest in the genre, as from 1959-1963 the number of series was slashed by nearly two-thirds. It is clear that 1963 was when the western genre, as a form of filmed entertainment, slumped to its nadir. (Buscombe 428-6)

1963 was also the year that Paramount commissioned producer A.C. Lyles to make Law of the Lawless. With the information now provided it should be apparent that a level of mystery surrounds this film. Why would a major studio commission a traditional western of a cycle that was winding up, at a time when it seemed that the genre had no future? One can perhaps mark it down to necessity – a studio (even one as formidable as Paramount) needing quick, low-budget filler for an under-nourished production slate. This is a reasonable assumption and certainly one-off aberrations are not uncommon in Hollywood. Yet the intrigue that surrounds Law of the Lawless is only the starting point of this thesis’s concerns. As the film received nothing more than lukewarm reviews at best and barely made a impression at the box office (Variety does not list it among its 85 films collecting over $500,000 in rentals for the year), we need to ask, why did Paramount release another twelve of these films from A.C. Lyles (one reaching the screen every 3-4 months), the last of them reaching the screen in June of 1968?

These westerns had narratives as formulaic as their titles. The Hollywood trade paper Variety once published a brief report announcing a new, ten-film contract extension for Lyles with Paramount studios. The article stated that the dozen western features already made by Lyles in the preceding four years constitute:

“not only the most prolific, but also the most consistent output (in subject matter and style as well as in casting) of any producer in recent memory”.

The reporter describes these films with a tone of slight bemusement and even incredulity.

“(They) are all old-fashioned westerns, with barely a hint of ‘modern’ cinematic sadism or sex. The men are men and fight like oath-bound boy scouts, while the women are invariably of the schoolteacher or (for spice) saloon hostess persuasion. Psychology is uncomplicated to the point of non-existence and the plots are straight-forward action fare”. (‘A.C. Lyles Begins 10 for Par’ 5)

There appears to be no definitive published explanation for why Lyles’ films were produced. However, if we return to the advertisement of Robinson Crusoe on Mars & Law of the Lawless, we can find clues for some of the reasons for their domestic purpose. With careful examination one needs to consider the potential market for the main feature, the space on the admat reserved for the support feature, the name of the studio releasing the films and the spread of theatres the films were provided with for their New York release. The ad states it is a ‘Showcase’ presentation and the film was to open at fifteen theatres in both the city and suburbs.

This post will contend that, as commodities, the A.C. Lyles westerns were produced to conform to certain expectations and utilities of distribution and exhibition, their budgets, running times, production values and subject matter adhering to specific avenues of product dissemination. Although designed to American production and release standards, they were, in fact, made primarily for the purposes of overseas distribution, for although such film appear anachronistic for American theatres in the mid 1960s, they were highly popular, headline product in Europe, where the western was still a favourite genre with audiences. Apart from the viability of the genre, foreign earnings were of an increasing importance to the American film industry. In the early 1940s such revenue accounted for 20-25% of distribution rentals, by 1956 40-50% of earnings would emanate from overseas and the rate was increasing. For their American releases they accomplished the role of filling a space in ‘Showcase’ presentations, a new form of theatrical exhibition primarily aiming for the juvenile and suburban market. In regards their genre, the western was chosen due to its lull on screens large and small, with the promise of later television sales to bring lucrative rewards. Overall though, the A.C. Lyles westerns were created out of necessity by a studio in turmoil. The security and stability of the classical era was evaporating in the 1950s. The following decade was one of uncertainty in which once venerable practices (including in-house production, overhead, genre, star systems and established release formats) were no longer accountable. By the end of the decade the lost audience would begin to return to the films of the ‘New Hollywood’ – cinema produced with a younger target audience, often with international financial backing and artistic input and produced independently for major studio distribution. The reasons for the existence of the Lyles’ western cycle are complex and sourced in the evolution of exhibition methods and the delicate relationship between film and television and streams of finance from an increasingly global market, made in those ‘in-between’ years, as the ‘old’ Hollywood attempted consolidation. A time of crisis for Paramount and the industry overall, it seemed as if Hollywood no longer had the answers for its malaise. In the chase for a box-office hit large amounts of money was sunk into seemingly sure-fire formulae. Inevitably few succeeded and just as inexplicable was the surprise and unheralded hit, which the studios often had difficulty accounting for. Such failures (and the occasional success) of the period have been documented. But little has been written of the stop-gap measures employed to stem the financial haemorrhaging. This post will attempt to illuminate an aspect of these practices.

The first part of this post will discuss the notion of the ‘zone-run-clearance’ system of film exhibition and how it affected film production in the United States. Forming a hierarchy of cinemas and in turn films, the system was a dictating force in the way markets were established and then targeted by the industry. Remaining stable for nearly fifty years, it was a new form of presentation attempted by the studios that created a market for the likes of the Lyles and his westerns.

The second part is devoted to the evolution of double feature film presentations and the creation of a gulf between ‘A’ and ‘B’ westerns within both the industry and through audience perception. Over time, for a variety of reasons, the distinction became blurred, leading to the concept of the ‘co-feature’, a unique category into which the Lyles’ westerns fell.

Part three will detail the crumbling fortunes Paramount in the period after the Second World War. Inefficient management, poor decision-making and an inability to adapt to the post-studio system era eventually led to the company’s takeover. Paramount desperately turned to European markets for both exporting and importing. Such ventures illustrate the uncertainty of the period as it was the purchase of a low-budget, dubbed ‘sword-and-sandal’ epic that proved to be (on a cost: return ratio) the studio’s most profitable film of 1963. It was on this buying expedition that the notion of a low budget series of westerns for the European market was raised and, needing product cheaply and quickly, they looked to A.C. Lyles. This part will also discuss how these features were produced, marketed and exhibited, using extensive box office data from the period.

In order to establish the merits of an in-depth discussion of the westerns of A.C. Lyles, this introduction has already placed these town westerns within their generic context. Having found that they anachronisms of their time, the only future allusions to generic discussion will be in regards to the impact it had upon the industry of western production. As this thesis is primarily an industrial-economic study, it shall be restricted from any textual analysis, although such a study would make for a worthwhile endeavour. This thesis will view any films discussed as industrial commodities – product manufactured for the purposes of gaining an audience.

PART TWO: THE HEIRARCHY OF THE AMERICAN WESTERN – THE ‘ZONE-RUN-CLEARANCE’ SYSTEM AND DIVISION IN THE MARKETPLACE.

Western scholar Ed Buscombe has written that –

“Until the early 1930s we cannot really speak of ‘A’ and ‘B’ features. Before then all westerns had to make their own way in the market on equal terms with other productions.” (36-7)

This claim is true in regards to the emergence of the double-feature method of exhibition in the early 1930s, but to claim that prior to that time a free market operated is not entirely accurate.

The laissez-faire policy of film exhibition in the United States only determined the market for a little more than its first decade. In the industry’s infancy, exhibitors gained the right to screen films via a bidding system, one that was dogged by corruption. Theatre owners bribed booking agents in order to receive the most desirable titles and often owners would collude to keep prices down, by alternating on not bidding against each other for particular films. The dishonesty was affecting both producers and exhibitors so the General Film Company was formed in 1910 to establish order. The company bought up the licensed film exchanges and instituted the ‘zone-run-clearance’ system, an exhibition standard that would last, with few alterations, for over half a century. (Izod 19-20)

The system entailed dividing markets (generally cities or towns) into ‘zones’ determined by population size and spread. Within a particular zone, each theatre would be classified depending on its size, seating capacity and the superiority of its equipment and comfort – in essence, its ability to generate revenue. Those rated best within the zone were classified with a ‘first run’ rating, the next grouping as ‘second run’ and so forth, down to the smallest ‘fleapit’ theatres which were generally third runs in most towns, but in large cities such as New York and Chicago there existed fifth and sixth run theatres.

First run theatres would be given first-refusal rights on all new films. Once a film had completed its run at the theatre it would then be withdrawn for a period of time (anywhere from 7-30 days) for what was known as the ‘clearance’. Then the film would move to a second-run theatre and the process would continue as the film wended its way through the class of runs. Naturally the first-run theatres would be charged the higher rental fee for new films, with later run houses paying as little as 20% by the time they secured the title. Initially the fee was determined by the length of the film (exhibitors paid by the foot), irrespective of the budget or production values. (Izod 40-41) In time that rule was scrapped and for most first-run films a revenue sharing arrangement was agreed upon, with the general rule being a 60/40 split between distributor and exhibitor (although, on certain popular or expensive titles it may have been as high as 90/10 for the first week and on a sliding scale thereafter. (Dick 36-9)

The most marked effect of the strictly enforced system was that the first-run theatre was overly privileged and protected. By securing the premiere engagements, they also gained the most ardent filmgoers and with the clearance factor, the potential audience soon became aware that a popular title might be withdrawn for up to a month before it arrived at another, lesser (albeit closer) cinema.

The zone-run-clearance system created a hierarchy of cinemas. (Izod 20) With all new films at their disposal, the first-run theatre owners became the arbiters of quality (also only insofar as its relativity to revenue generation). The second and later run theatres were left to pick over what was left. It must be reiterated that every new film did not have to play at a first run theatres. If the owners decided to pass on a film, the discretion was then left to the second-run owner and so on. For later run owners the choice was one of taking popular title that had already been in release and being charged a reasonably high rate of rental. The downside was that the film had already be seen by many of the potential audience, however it was advantageous that the title had been well publicised and was a known commodity to that remaining audience, and if the film was particularly appealing, then the repeat viewing was a strong possibility. On the other hand, the later-run owner could choose to take an unknown, cheaper title which would generally be of a lower budget and be viewed in the industry as a less attractive proposition. Yet with a lower operating base and a less-discerning audience such a film could prove profitable in the later-run situation. (Gomery ‘Shared Pleasures’ 77-9)

This opened the market for a number of low-budget filmmakers who, overlooked by the first-run houses, could target the later venues. Even within the first run market there existed diversity. Apart from fulfilling a designated criteria, there was little uniformity within the class of runs. During the 1920s each year averaged over six hundred feature films and many more of a shorter length. With a diverse range of product on offer to an audience with a wide variety of tastes, many theatres attempted to lure and retain niches of the market. This strategy became a necessity in the late 1920s as the first run theatres became congested into the central business districts of each city, complimenting the restaurants, live theatres, musical venues and other forms of entertainment. (Finler 14-17) A picture palace may specialise in glamorous Hollywood productions predominately featuring female stars in order to attract one audience and around the corner the less salubrious venue may concentrate on male-dominated action for their patronage. Audiences became accustomed to identifying theatres with the types of films they played. (Izod 40-1) Such a notion became more intense when the film producers began buying the theatres.

In 1910 the system was implemented to provide a fair and equitable market for the producer and exhibitor. At that time most theatres were run independently and ‘chains’ only consisted of little more than a handful of houses under single ownership. The film industry was also a loosely structured notion, with filmmakers spread across the country and many small, ad-hoc companies existing for only a few features before disbanding or merging with others. In time though, as the film industry evolved, so too did the business of theatre ownership. Many of Hollywood’s later moguls began their industry careers as owners of single Nickelodeon screens and building upon that success. It did not take long for production and exhibition to merge and the most perceptive film producers knew that it was the first run theatres that delivered the greatest returns for their own product. (Finler 14-17)

A cause-and-effect cycle soon began for the film companies that owned studios. By channelling their own product into their cinemas, they collected the entire revenue of not just the rental fee, but the entire gross. With production and exhibition consolidated, distribution costs were streamlined and the potential for theatres under-reporting their takings were eliminated. This enabled greater returns for these companies who would then invest in films with higher production values, the most popular stars and a greater audience appeal. They would also purchase, lease or build the most opulent cinemas in each city. It was a twinned strategy of the best theatres playing the finest films, enabled by exponential profits created by the success of production directly funnelled into exhibition. By the 1930s the major studios’ oligopoly not only controlled the American film industry but also exerted the most power in the exhibition business, at the expense of the independent film producer and theatre owner.

In many cities and larger towns the theatre district may have venues owned by a number of production companies (although the mix was dependent on the area – Paramount was strong in the south and the New England States, MGM (Loews) and RKO dominated New York and its neighbours, Warners down the east coast and Fox the west). (Finler 17) Studios’ house-style helped differentiate between films and in some cases where a studio owned more than a single first run venue in a zone, they would channel their product into the theatre most suitable. ‘Action-houses’ became a standard venue in each city, relying on a steady diet of westerns, horror, war, and adventure films. In the 1920s these were the cinemas where a western fan would hope to see the latest, moderately budgeted Tom Mix or William S. Hart feature. For expensive ‘epic outdoor dramas’ such as The Covered Wagon (1924) or The Iron Horse (1924) they would probably expect to buy their tickets at the lavish picture palace down the street. (Izod 54-8) By the 1930s the studios two sorted their productions into two groups of films – ‘A’ and ‘B’. Within the ‘A’ film bracket there existed three more divisions – the ‘supers-special’ of which there were few – expensive epic narratives featured their most popular performers; ‘specials’ were well-budgeted star vehicles designed for the top of the bill and ‘programmers’ were modestly budgeted A-films featuring minor leads that could play either end of the bill. (Neale 239-245) The production of these films was intrinsically linked to the suitability of the theatres they would later play in, So upon close inspection, the hierarchy of theatres contained a division within the run and in some cases it was divided further between a sole owner.

The zone-run-clearance system continued with little change (except for an increasing dominance by the major studios) until the 1948 Supreme Court Consent decree (often referred to as ‘The Paramount Decree) which attempted to break the studios’ vertically integrated control of the exhibition business. In the mid 1940s the studios owned approximately 3000 of the nation’s 18000 theatres. At only 17% of the total it may have seemed a minor amount considering their control. However, these venues constituted a lucrative 70% of all first-run in the country. Independent producers had to struggle to have their films seen and independent exhibitors struggled to screen anything from the studios, unless they were willing to agree to impractical terms of screening a feature for longer than its market worth and by having to take a slew of inferior features along with the one desirable title. From 1948 the major studios could produce and distribute, but not exhibit film. (Dick 37-40)

In the 1950s average weekly attendances plummeted at American theatres. From a 1944 peak of 84 million, by 1963 only 22 million tickets were being sold per week. (Finler 288) For the studios that owned theatres, hindsight may have led them to believe that the enforced divestiture of theatres was a blessing in disguise. For in the same period half the ‘hard-top’ venues had closed in the United States. Having exited exhibition when business was good they had been able to sell their theatres as sound investments. A decade later they were worth little more than their land value for redevelopment. It was a combination of several factors that caused the audience downturn – television and the rise of the suburban lifestyle in the postwar period. With new diversions taking the disposable entertainment time and dollar, the once loyal audience had other ways to spend their time. They no longer went in such numbers to the movies for a night out. Instead, they went to specific films. Yet for the expanding suburbs the theatres were not in place or were somewhat tatty later run venues. According to one theatre operator at the time, there were not too many cinema seats, it was just that they were in the wrong places. (Balio 5-12)

The theatres that closed in the period were mostly later run venues, but the decrease in screens was somewhat made by for by the boom of drive-in cinemas which targeted the new youth audience. American teenagers had both the cars and disposable income that the youth of the past did not. Drive-ins were popular markets for science-fiction, horror and films with teenage protagonists and although the major studios benefited from the popularity of this form of screening, it was the smaller studios such as American International who tailored their product directly to such venues, with both domestically produced films and imported (then dubbed) material. Popular ‘ozoner’ fare would generally not warrant a first-run hardtop release, but with lower overheads and an audience that was coming to the drive-in for the entertainment ‘experience’ rather than the particular film (as was once the case with hardtop screens), such films were viable (and inexpensive) options for 1950s film producers. (Heffernan 151-2)

With the number of hardtop theatres declining, the studios decreased their film output, concentrating on A-films with larger budgets and various widescreen formats in an attempt to lure audiences back to the cinema with spectacles they would not find on Television. For the surviving theatre owner it meant large investments in the installation of new, larger screens and sound equipment. The 1948 ‘Paramount Decree’ had intended to provide theatres with the advantage of choosing the films they wished to screen, but a decade later, with far fewer films on offer, the studios returned to the winning position as theatres were forced to accept outrageous terms to screen the rationed product. For the traditional zone-run-clearance system to be most effective it required a high volume of films being filtered through a large number of theatres. With the films not forthcoming and the later runs base eroded in many cities, the system was weakened. The first run houses were overpaying and the second runs were waiting far longer for films to screen. (Monaco 41-56)

From the mid 1950s through to the late 1960s there were a number of new initiatives in exhibition release formats and patterns in yet another attempt to create a market division and product differentiation:

ROADSHOW – Almost always reserved for the most prestigious and spectacular fare, this form of presentation involved the film opening initially in one or two cities (usually New York and Los Angeles) at the grandest of venues. All seating would be reserved and tickets priced higher (‘hardticket’) for the occasion. With an overture and intermission, a roadshow release was a cinema ‘event’ rather than a regular night at the movies. The film would gradually roll out over the country would sometimes play in the one theatre for over a year before moving into a smaller first run venue at regular (‘popscale’) ticket pricing and reverting to the traditional release pattern. Roadshow gross splits were heavily in favour of the distributor for the first few weeks with a sliding scale thereafter and with the high ticket prices this could provide a bountiful take. But with the film usually playing only once per day (to retain its event value) and with the distributor having to pay for the extra staff required for the complicated booking procedures, the returns were slow to come in. If a film was a failure on roadshow, it would almost definitely be a disaster when on traditional first run. Roadshows reached saturation point in the late 1960s and returns suffered. A number of westerns such as How the West was Won (1962) and Cheyenne Autumn (1964) were released with this method, the former far more successful than the latter. (Monaco 48)

TRADITIONAL FIRST RUN releases were those A-films not deemed spectacular enough for roadshowing. Most films continued to be released in this manner and although their grosses could seldom match that of roadshows, the campaign costs were far less prohibitive. Paramount’s The Sons of Katie Elder (1965) was one of the highest grossing non-roadshows of its year.

SHOWCASE: A concept initiated by United Artists in New York in the early 1960s, showcasing involved releasing a first release film in multiple first runs within a single city. For these presentations many second-run houses (including drive-ins) were granted first-run status. Occasionally a film would be given an exclusive opening for a couple of weeks at a single city theatre before moving into showcase, but just as often it was a direct wide release across a city. Theatres would bid for the rights to screen showcase product and the distributors and exhibitors would save on advertising by just listing the venues under the promotional item. Paramount was quick to endorse the concept and tried it in other cities. Soon, all of the majors followed suit. Showcasing was ideal for double-feature, especially those of a dubious quality. A clever marketing campaign could reap strong grosses over the opening weekend (of a usual single week booking), before word of mouth could harm the films’ chances. The system was not without its disadvantages. First-run city theatres involved in the showcase could expect lower returns than usual and a poor campaign could result in a failure on a large scale (especially as some later New York presentations included over 60 venues) and there was little time to build momentum of ‘difficult’ titles which required care and planning. Therefore showcasing was usually restricted to easily marketed genre titles. (‘Showcasing’ 3)

ARTHOUSE cinemas flourished during the period. Generally small venues on converted premises they eschewed the traditional release patterns by exhibiting independently distributed (often imported) fare. Apart form the expected, critically acclaimed arthouse films, the trade press also designated cinemas that were just as likely to screen titillating exploitation with the same description. Major studios rarely bothered with such theatres, except when attempted to distribute particularly difficult material picked up through European distribution deals. (Gomery ‘Shared’ 180-195)

DRIVE-IN and LATER RUN FIRST RELEASE. Akin to the former independent theatre exhibition practices in the pre-1948 era, this usually involved regional and states-rights distributed films bypassing traditional release schedules. Neither major studios or theatre chains were likely to be involved. (Heffernan (151-2)

Although the film industry was still struggling in the 1960s, box office receipts had slowly improved and the freefall of attendances had stalled. After a traumatic period in the 1950s when methods of exhibition had a stolid monotony, the new practices and innovations once again created divisions and niches in the marketplace, allowing films to be produced and promoted for select audiences and creating new windows of opportunity for both the major studios and the independent operator. Having established the streams of exhibition available to distributors, the following chapter shall examine how the product was developed to suit these particular markets and patterns of release.

PART THREE: ADDED ATTRACTIONS – THE SECOND FEATURE – BRIDGING THE GULF FROM B-MOVIES TO CO-FEATURES.

The coming of sound preceded the Great Depression by around two years and the success and novelty of the ‘talkies’ enabled the motion picture industry to weather the ensuing financial meltdown, but with much duress and by incurring crippling losses. Between 1929-1935 the number of theatres in North America dropped by 8000 to 15,300. However it must be noted that most of the closures were of silent theatres that did not make the conversion to sound and during that period the number of sound-equipped theatres progressively increased. (finler 288) There was no disguising the drop in audience attendance though; 25 million fewer tickets were sold in 1932 than in 1930. In an attempt to lure back viewers, theatre owners offered prizes of household goods an games of chance for lucky ticket buyers. This practice was outlawed in 1933 (albeit for less than two years) as an unfair practice by the National Recovery Act. (Gomery ‘Shared’ 77-8)

As a means of survival, desperate theatre owners turned to a practice that had been trialled by several regional theatre chains in the late 1920s, the concept of offering ‘two for one’ movies. By adding a second feature to the bill at the expense of the customary short subject, the now-frugal public were promised a full night’s entertainment for their 75 cents admission. (Gomery ‘Shared’ 77-8)

It must be noted that the studio-owned theatres (accounting for a large percentage of first-run houses) were initially reluctant to play a second feature due to their belief that it would diminish the quality of their (often expensive) main attraction. For its first few years the double-bill was confined to independent theatres (the majority being later run, neighbourhood venues) struggling to compete with the grand, studio-owned picture palaces that may have been spiralling into debt, but were determined to offer their customary extravagant entertainment. Paramount was the most resistant of the major studios, holding out until 1938 when the pressure of declining profits saw them add second features to many of their bills, often at the expense of the lavish musical revues that had accompanied films in their finest theatres. (Gomery ‘Shared’ 78)

At first, the second feature was generally a well-worn and inexpensive print taken from the film exchange of a once regular release now a few years old. The true ‘B-film’, as the second-feature came to be known, appeared shortly afterwards as smart producers tailored ‘all new’ features with running times more amenable for pairing with a lengthy main attraction. It would be over generalising to offer a description that suited all B-films, however they did share a number of traits including a low budget, limited shooting schedule and a running time of around 50-70 minutes. Due to their undersized length, scenes were pared down to their most basic necessities in order to convey as much plot as possible. These films often featured former high-profile performers whose stars were on the wane and in most cases their storylines were downsized derivatives of popular screen genres. With advertising of B-films kept to a minimum (in many cases no more than a single line in a newspaper advertisement) their titles would have to convey a representation of what the audience would be paying to see. (McCarthy 14-20)

In discussing the concept of ‘dualling’, it must be recognised that there was no fixed practice to how the engagements were structured. What compromised a double feature was entirely dependent upon the theatre – its ownership, class of run, patronage and region. As the major studios succumbed to the production practice, they developed their own B-units to fill the second feature slots in their theatres (especially the action houses and second run venues). Independent operators of first-run houses continued to resist the true ‘B’ film and preferred to continue to screen older, former A-titles as second features (their rental fee declining with age). It was in the later-run theatres where the B-film enjoyed its strongest following. Bypassing the major studios completely, the owners could deal with the ‘poverty row’ studios such as Mascot, Monogram, Lone Star and PRC – companies which thrived in the B-film market. (McCarthy 15-23) As a rule, the B-film was booked at a flat fee, unlike the main attraction that would be charged at a rate dependent upon factors such as the house’s run and seating capacity. For the low run theatres this could mean picking up a title for as little as $25 and if their viewers were not overly discerning, this could reap a tidy profit. For that amount they could receive a 1930s Buck Jones B-western from Columbia. It may seem that a $25 fee could hardly deliver a profit for the studio, but with 10,000 domestic playdates (not uncommon for the B-market) the return of $250,000 would realise a healthy profit on the film’s modest $25,000 budget. Such a cost was miniscule by the standards of the major studios, but it was quite lavish compared to some poverty row productions. In the early 1930s John Wayne was shooting 3-day westerns at Monogram budgeted at $5000 each. (Buscombe 39-40) With so much product available and a diverse audience to cater for, theatres would experiment with the films they twinned together. Peter Stanfield has discovered that in some rural areas, series westerns that were restricted to the bottom of the bill in urban situations were screened as the main attraction and they filled the weekend run, often at the expense of costlier and prestigious A-films which were relegated to the quieter mid-week slot. (52-71)

The poverty row studios did not have the resources to maintain a national distribution network, so their films were managed through the States’ Rights System. This involved an independent distributor purchasing poverty row titles and brokering deals with theatres in specified states. A studio may deal with many of these franchisees to ensure their films played across the country and the franchisee (as the states’ rights distributor was known) would commonly handle the films of a number of companies. Eventually Republic and Monogram grew strong enough to manage their own distribution, but the States Rights method continued into the late 1970s the films they handled then being mostly of the low budget horror and sex variety. (McCarthy 18)

It may have taken Paramount until late in the decade to screen B-films in their first run theatres, yet they were happy enough to provide rival theatres with a steady stream of B’s. For 1935 the Paramount B-film slate consisted of 35 films which were mostly musicals, comedies, mysteries and westerns. Among the westerns were the first three that featured William Boyd as ‘Hopalong Cassidy’. (Eames 107-113) Producer Harry Sherman had approached Paramount to finance a film based on the character but the studio agreed to release the film, they declined to invest in it. Even in 1935 the $85,000 cost of Hop-a-Long Cassidy was a very low budget but the studio’s reluctance shows their pessimism of the market potential and prestige value of such a film. They still eventually released the independently financed feature to huge success and over the next six years they released a further forty films featuring Boyd in the role. (Tuska 312-13)

In 1940 Paramount began a partnership with the Pine-Thomas company to produce B-films for their production schedules. William Pine and William Thomas were former press agents and at Paramount they reworked a lucrative narrative formula for the next fifteen years. They concentrated mostly within two genres, either action-filled melodramas featuring a hero working in a deadly profession encountering life-threatening situations (minesweeper, lumberjack) or romantic musicals in which struggling performers realise their dreams. Pine-Thomas were extremely successful for Paramount, by the mid 1940s their films were averaging $600,000 grosses on $125,000 budgets. Their arrangement was that the studio would finance all their films and pay them 25% of all profits over 125% of the films’ cost. As a result ‘the dollar bills’ (as the producers were known) were earning $700,000 a year at their peak. Frugal and efficient, they recycled sets, had a staff of only 11 on each film and paid their actors by the hour. Overhead was kept to a 4%, nearly a tenth of the average Paramount production. (‘It’s not art, but…’ 34-5)

By the mid 1940s the B-film was an established standard at most American cinemas. Audiences may have remained divided on the worth of such films, but all were aware of their characteristics (including limitations). In the previous chapter it was explained how the zone-run-clearance system created a hierarchy of theatres which led to a division of the (perceived) quality of films. The introduction of the double-feature created yet another (immutable) division, a gulf between A and B films that was seemingly impossible to bridge. Certainly the major studios found a use for the B-film other than revenue raising, grooming promising stars and creative personnel in their low-budget training grounds, but for the most part actors and directors never crossed back and forth between the A and B gulf. One of the few to manage the feat was John Wayne, whose career had begun with a leading role in the potential blockbuster The Big Trail (1930: Raoul Walsh). However after that film’s boxoffice failure Wayne toiled away in scores of the cheapest westerns produced on poverty row for the best part of a decade. With some luck he managed to land the lead in John Ford’s Stagecoach in 1939 and never left A-films again. (Stanfield 31-55) Gene Autry, William Boyd and Roy Rogers may have had large and loyal followings and their films may have made them extremely wealthy but they remained B-film stars and were unable to cross the gulf into the respected realms of the A-film. (Buscombe 39-42) Indeed, for mush of the 1930s the only way the western myth found a cinematic retelling was through the ghetto of the B-movie. After the failure of several ‘outdoor epics’ at the start of the decade the major studios abandoned the western. There was even little room for the moderately budgeted efforts of the 1920s with the likes of Tim McCoy and William S. Hart that had been so successful. For the most part the majors avoided westerns entirely – even as B-films – knowing that the poverty row studios could churn out product of a similar quality cheaper and more efficiently. (Neale 138-9) It was not until late in the decade that the majors, led by Paramount, returned to the large-scale western and they kept it as a staple of their slates for the next quarter century.

It took the combined efforts of the television and the break-up of the studio’s stranglehold upon the exhibition industry to finally end the production of the true B-movie. With no studios to funnel their products into, the major studios had little incentive to produce B-films and although the films had retained a (decreasing) profitability, due to the flat booking fee arrangement their profits were always capped. These films could never break out of the second feature ‘ghetto’ and realise the substantial profits the majors desired. By the mid 1950s the studios had eliminated their B-units. After 71 films in fourteen years, 1955 saw Paramount and Pine-Thomas dissolve their partnership. (Dick 39)

The poverty rows studios exited the B-film market in the same decade. In 1947 PRC was bought out by the British owned Eagle-Lion distribution company which in turn was absorbed by United Artists in 1951. Monogram moved up from the B-film ghetto and became Allied Artists in 1953, raising the budgets and production values in the determined hope of finding a new audience. Republic’s expansion into expensive productions in the late 1940s saw their profit base eroded and the greater concentration on such features in the 1950s resulted in losses in 1957 A belated return to their once profitable B-westerns (on $150,000 budgets) in 1957-8 was to no avail. (McCarthy 31-2) The situation did not improve and the company closed in 1959. For the western this virtually eradicated the foundations of the genre. For although there was little cross-communication between A and B films, the low end of the market did maintain a steady re-telling of the western myth and kept the audience aware of the form, including its codes, and traits. With the basic foundations removed, the western’s role as a staple of the American cinema-going experience was seriously weakened and with film production decreasing in the A-market, it would require other means to keep the genre in the public consciousness.

That role was taken by television and from 1955-9 the unabated popularity of the western saw the number of prime-time series leap from one to forty-nine. (Buscombe 488) It appeared that the public’s appetite for the western was not restricted to the super-specials being made by Hollywood. There was still a need for small-scale western drama, but no longer were the public prepared to leave home and pay to see it. Unfortunately, the glut of prime-time westerns led to an over-saturation on the small screen. It was in the late 1950s that the American networks stopped relying on just the number of viewers to attract advertisers and instead began examining the demographics of their audiences. The data revealed that westerns were most popular among children and males of a low socio-economic standing – the demographic least popular with advertisers. So the prime-time western was slashed from schedules, with only a quarter of 1959’s number on screen four years later. Although unpopular, the audience for smaller-scale westerns still existed. (Boddy 119-140)

Yet although the true B-film was no longer a viable option, the double feature was still prominent and for some production companies the post-divestment era offered new opportunities. Columbia and Universal were referred to as among the ‘little three’ of the major studios (with United Artists being the other). Throughout the 1930s they had specialised in high quality B-films with a number of modestly budgeted A-films also on their slates. (Gomery ‘Studio’ 157-163) It is arguable that much of their product could be described as ‘programmers’. Among the 1948 Paramount decree’s acts was to ban the policy of blind booking. From that point, films would be sold individually and not as enforced package deals. This extended to B-films which had long been taken sight unseen. Now the theatre-owners could pick and choose their second features. Low quality productions stood little chance of being booked so across the industry standards were raised in competition. The B-film was close to extinction, but the ‘co-feature’ film emerged to take its place, with Universal and Columbia at the forefront of their production. (Izod 120-4)

The co-feature had a higher budget than the B-film, a longer running time (80-95 minutes) and better production values. Their performers may have not been A-list stars, but they were usually established performers able to attract a healthy audience interest. Plots may have had generic origins, but the extended length and need for product differentiation resulted in greater character depth and the movement away from the formulaic second-feature standard of the past. It has been theorised that the emergence of the co-feature was one of the factors that enabled the film noir trend of the late 1940s-early 1950s. (Izod 124) Although the budgets were higher on co-features, they retained their profitability due to being paired not with expensive A-features, but with other co-features of a similar production cost and, unlike the regular B-film, their initial releases were booking on a rental basis, with the two films sharing the split. When advertised, co-features would often share the engagement with a 50/50 billing, but one of the films could have its emphasis increased / decreased depending upon the theatre and its audience. In many cases this could be determined by which film would take the first billing and the titles swapped depending on the situation. (Izod 128) As a point of clarification, a ‘co-feature’ did differ from a ‘programmer’. The programmer was made for situations where it could play the second feature slot alongside a ‘special’ in upmarket theatres, but take the top of the bill in late-run houses with a true B-film as support. (Neale 237-9) Co-features almost always supported films of a similar production status and had a more equitable share of the bill and advertising.

For Universal, it resulted in a market for many of their series comedies. Once their popularity had tapered they no longer had the clout to carry a theatrical engagement. They were still too high profile to be relegated to B-status, but when twinned with a feature of equal entertainment value they could be a suitable engagement. The studio’s Francis, Ma and Pa Kettle and Abbott and Costello features all sustained long runs due to the co-feature concept. (Gomery ‘Studio’ 202-213)

For the western, the co-feature concept enabled a revival in the fortunes of some performers. Randolph Scott, Rory Calhoun and Dale Robertson were prolific in the 1950s. It has been stated that the James Stewart-Anthony Mann westerns of the decade could also be classified as such, although one would class these as ‘A minus’ westerns, rather than the ‘B plus’ description given to other co-feature films of the period. (Buscombe 47-8)

Whereas the big-four majors (Paramount, Fox, MGM and Warner Brothers) initially concentrated upon true A-films, the new exhibition trends, aided by the boom in drive-in theatres, opened the market for new and far smaller production companies. American International Pictures, Allied Artists were among those tailoring films specifically for the co-feature audience. (Heffernan 77-9)

It took a severe downturn in the industry for the major studios to begin exploring other avenues of exhibition and the production of films suited to such outlets.As the next chapter shall explain, for Paramount it was one of the few options left available, when the once trusted methods had failed. It was the combination of the co-feature, the new exhibition methods and a still viable foreign market willing to see standard studio fare that paved the way for Paramount’s investment in the low-budget oater.

Alighting at the Elizabeth St exit of Flinders St Station, you’ll be greeted with the sort of view that seldom makes the Melbourne tourist brochures. Get past the newspaper hawkers and you’ll be greeted by a run of natty shops on either side of the Elizabeth St intersection. Crossing the wind tunnel of a road (there always seems to be MacDonalds rubbish billowing around your ankles) you can then wander down Elizabeth Street. You won’t see much of interest – it is the type of street not designed for a stroll, you only ever go there if you have a reason to, or on the way to get somewhere else. Some shitty little souvenir stores dot the path, along with those shop fronts that open for a few weeks to cash in on the Grand Prix and other such communal wankfests.Eventually you’ll make it to the motorcycle strip if that is your thing or the backdoor to Melbourne Central (Highpoint with trains). For those of us with a more discerning and slightly devilish bent we can spot Minotaur Books, Inferno Video and that import DVD place I can never remember the name of. Afterwards there is the Stork hotel to enjoy a quiet ale as you peruse your purchases. To most of us that is pretty much it for Elizabeth Street. A bit shabby, pretty grubby and where the rents are cheap(ish). You are guaranteed to be asked at least once for money and you’ll probably have your eyes fixed to somewhere distant – somewhere else.

Most of you have wandered that strip and have probably quickened the step just a little bit more as you pass the Crazyhorse Cinema on the corner of Elizabeth and Flinders Lane. Maybe you have skirted it on the way to Missing Link records and have tried to avert eye contact with the businessman sheepishly sneaking out the pornhouse’s side exit. Its garish neon and peeling grey exterior adorned with panels of pouty-lipped gals have the aura of sleazy delight but you’d never fall for thinking it was a sad shadow of a once proud burlesque house. And it wasn’t. If you take the step and venture down the Crazyhorse stairs you’ll find…not much at all. Greeting you is a ticket booth staffed by the affable manager Steve, who’ll give you change for the peep shows (two bucks a throw…or is that a toss?) or sell you a ticket for a seat in the cinema (valid for 12 hours – better value that a metcard!)The peeps are on the left and the cinema entrance to its right. Seating an exact hundred patrons, its screen is akin to that of one in a a small arthouse multiplex and the seats surprisingly comfortable and without the expected pong of pine-o-cleen. Offering pensioner discounts and generous rates for bucks’ turns, the Crazyhorse operates 24 hours over weekends. This was how I first encountered the cinema, around 20 years back after I missed the last train home one winter’s evening. With only a few quid in my pocket I figured that any all-night café would soon lose patience with me sitting on a couple of cups of coffee over 5 hours so I ended up at the Crazyhorse and dozed off to the grunts and groans of some long forgotten late 80s porn loop (if I recall correctly Ginger Lynn was the star…but wasn’t she the star of all of them around that time?) I tell ya though, a lot of places could take a leaf out of the Crazyhorse’s customer service manual. At 5am I was given a soft tap on the shoulder and told that my first train home would be leaving shortly. I stumbled out into the darkness and managed to knock off a tray of donuts from out the front of a nearby milkbar along with a newspaper from the freshly delivered pile and shuffled off home.

I have never had the occasion or desire to revisit the Crazyhorse. Hardcore porn generally bores me (although Michael Ninn’s stuff interested me for a while) and if I ever have the desire to peruse such material I do so in the privacy of my loungeroom. A few weeks back I returned to the Crazyhorse in preparation for this article and found not much had changed. I had a friendly chat with the manager of 20 years who seemed quite bemused that anyone would be interested in reading about the history of the place. Short-staffed that day he generously gave me a look around, detailing their policies and practices and basically explaining that the Crazyhorse has had to fight pretty hard against an increasingly prudish council and society to remain running. From what I saw during our chinwag it was hardly a clientele of perverted psychopaths lining up for tickets, instead it was a few old pensioners and a couple of jaded guys in suits. Men whose wives or marriages had passed on, getting a brief thrill before returning to their gloomy loneliness. If that makes the whole enterprise sound rather sad and depressing then it is only describing the reality of the adult theatre these days, although it was explained to me that there are often couples purchasing tickets along with footy club groups and even hen’s nights. Whatever is screened is from an anonymous DVD. Almost nothing specific has been advertised in 20 years so the days of being intrigued by a certain title have long gone. Since then it has just been the promise of sex – as to when they went ‘hardcore’ is a hard (heh) fact to pin down. That seems to be a taboo word – ‘non violent erotica’ is the preferred expression and although I was told it is entirely legal I was left with the impression that the whole area could best be described as ‘shady’.

So why devote so much time to the Crazyhorse, an anonymous grindhouse churning out one dispiriting porn loop after another? Surely I have told all there is to tell? Well, it wasn’t always that way. No, the Crazyhorse was never a grand picture palace that has since fallen on hard times. It always took the lowest rung on Melbourne’s cinema ladder, but did you know that this little theatre is the longest running in the CBD? Yes, since 1951 that premises has been operating and it has outlasted all of its contemporaries. The Regent, the Odeon, The Barclay and the Metro have long closed or have met the wrecker’s ball. The Capitol and State were converted in that time and only open now for festivals, Hoyts and Village both built much heralded state-of-the-art multiplexes that have come and gone. Fewer and fewer people venture into the city to see a movie these days – the suburban mall is the venue of choice, yet the Crazyhorse has quietly kept persevering, now into its sixth decade. But let’s start at the very beginning, as it’s a very good place to start.

In 1951 Melbourne had four cinemas specialising is screening newsreel programs. A fifth joined them that year when The Star theatrette (renamed the Crazyhorse in 1985) opened in February of 1951 at 34 Elizabeth Street, in the Basement of Carlow House, a building still intact and renowned for its distinct architecture. From the blueprint of Harry Norris and finally finished in 1939, Carlow House is one of Melbourne’s finest examples of art-deco design. On its opening the building housed the popular Croft’s grocery store at number 32, stretching around the corner into Flinders Lane. The Star took over the premises of the old Carlow House coffee lounge. The managers of the new cinema were the husband and wife team of Tom and Billie Virgona. Tom had been experienced in Sydney newsreel theatres before this venture south of the border and his father had been a well-regarded cinema operator in NSW.

Initially the Star seated 238 patrons and their diet was one of Paramount newsreels and shorts, along with a selection of short films for Warners, Columbia and RKO. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of a newsreel theatre, it operated on a program of around an hour, comprising of a weekly newsreel (highlights of world events), along with a number of cartoons (Tom and Jerry, Popeye etc) and a short film, perhaps a Pete Smith Speciality for a laugh or a Scotland Yard mystery for something a little heavier. Often highlights of a recent prizefight or Wimbledon tennis match would be the main attraction, but for that matter it may be an operatic performance or a tour of a famous art gallery. There were rarely set times for programs and customers could walk in at a whim and stay as long as they wished for a program run continuously throughout the day for the cost of a ticket far below that of a standard cinema program.

Now all of the major chains offered newsreels as part of the program in most of their theatres and they had the benefit of providing local newsreels, giving viewers the chance to see Australian stories and content. This was a luxury unavailable to The Star. Undeterred, the Virgonas improvised by filming the Melbourne Cup themselves one year and running it on the screen. In time they made a deal with British Empire films to provide the Cinesound Review – an Australian newsreel – and they were now on similar territory to the other newsreel theatres a few blocks away.

And so the Star and its competitors (including the Tatler and Albany on Collins Street, the Century on Swanston and the Times on Bourke) continued on throughout the 1950s. News, cartoons and featurettes, week after week. No, this could not last and you don’t need me to tell you that it was television was the culprit. America and Europe had already felt the effects of box and, combined with the break-up of the studio system and the diversity of post-war pursuits favoured by the now expanding and more affluent middle class, the industry was in crisis mode. In 1956 television was introduced to Australia and its effects were immediate and quite devastating. Within a year cinema audience numbers fell by 5 million. By 1961 admissions were down 52% on 1956 figures.

In this atmosphere of panic and paranoia the exhibitors could be excused for their near-sighted and knee-jerk reaction. Instead of a reluctant embrace of their new competitor and the forging of a symbiotic relationship they decided on a course of defence, then attack. Venue numbers were slashed, with the suburbs the hardest hit. 33% of Melbourne’s cinemas had closed by 1959 and many lovely suburban picture palaces met the wrecker’s ball or were converted into warehouses, shops and reception rooms. This streamlining of resources also saw both the massive State and Capitol theatres close in the city, to be later re-opened in smaller, most cost-efficient versions.

Drive-ins were opened across the suburbs with strong appeal to younger viewers and various new innovations were tried to lure back viewers. Some succeeded (stereo sound, widescreen projection) but others found their novelty did not last (3-D). Into the early 1960s the industry kept its head above water and by the middle of that decade the audiences left their loungerooms and began returning to the movies. New (smaller) theatres were built and film production increased.The industry had survived its greatest test.

One of the casualties of the introduction of television was the newsreel show. By the time it had cranked out of a theatrette’s projector, news footage had long since been transmitted into the lounge rooms of the potential audience. The other components of the programs – cartoons and short subjects – were plentiful fodder on the tele. The newsreel theatrette was obsolete within a few short years. Oddly enough, as the grand palaces were turning out the lights for good, all of Melbourne’s newsreel theatrettes managed to adapt and survive. The Tatler led the charge by changing its name to The Curzon in 1961 and initiating a policy of mostly foreign fare – a mixture of critically acclaimed arthouse hits and some rather risqué material. A couple of years later the Albany followed suit, but they seemed to favour more generic tastes, giving a good run to lots of thrillers and sword and sandal yarns. Around the same time Century joined them and they screened a similar output. The Times (located under the Odeon Theatre) stubbornly refused to drop the newsreel policy until 1968 when they leapt straight into the flesh film bin.

The Star had flirted briefly with a non-newsreel program, offering the odd feature length documentary as a main attraction, often with some healthy audience interest. However, for this article I’m going to pinpoint the Star’s changeover to full-time features as September 26th, 1963, for this was the opening date of Varietease, the Irving Klaw strip classic starring Betty Page. I’ll admit I am cheating here a little as when that film finished its run after three weeks the cinema went back to a newsreel program for a further eight weeks, before ditching the format permanently. But gee, how can you leave out a film of this importance in such a study?

This gaze back over the history of the Star cinema will be divided into 4 time periods, beginning with 1963 – 1971 (actually October of ’71) which is the pre-‘R’-certificate era. Further still, each of these periods will be divided again, into discussions focusing on various themes, genres and other such movements found in the films playing during those particular years.

For the Star was a barometer of the public taste in adult cinema. Also, when reading over a listing of the films that graced its screen, one can see definite trends emerging and then evaporating, certain narrative themes being key selling points and various countries being the key suppliers at different times over the cinema’s history. In many ways the Star was a microcosm of adult film exhibition within Australia. Of course the state of Victoria never legally allowed the screening of hardcore pornography and for its duration as the Star cinema (as opposed to the no-holds/holes barred policy of the Crazyhorse) it adhered to the cuts imposed by the Office of Film and Literature Classification. In many cases the uptight little muppets at the OFLC would act like Edward Scissorhands and hack films beyond comprehension. This fate even befell the ‘tame’ cuts imported from overseas, already shorn of much of their explicit nature for prudish markets such as Australia.

Naturally the introduction of the ‘R’-certificate did enable the exhibition of more salacious content (to a degree) within films, but prior to 1971 Melbourne viewers had to make do with just the inference of sexual content. You can imagine the sort of stuff on offer – An attractive woman in her lingerie kissing some lucky fella, then immediately cutting to a scene of her lying in bed with a sheet covering her modesty, smoking a cigarette and asking the man buttoning his shirt when he would return. Otherwise the film would be concerned with an inordinate amount of time spent at the beach or by the pool with lots of opportunities for starlets to be filmed in their bikinis or, for those wishing to push the boundaries a little, topless shots of the gal from behind as she strips off and runs uninhibited into the waves.

So this is the era where we will begin our journey. Henry Bolte was Victoria’s premier, Collins Street still had a Paris end, draconian licensing laws had the six o’clock swill in full swing and Melbourne was a ghost town on a Sunday. An attractive, uptight and rather dull city, this was indeed the home of Edna Everage. Yet ever so quietly the Star Theatrette toiled away – tentatively at first (their early feature programs were mostly a mix of innocuous comedies and tired genre flicks) – but soon they cottoned on to the fact that there was a market for the skin, the strange and the nasty. The story of the films of the Star will be divided into four eras: 1963 – October 1971 (the introduction of the ‘R’ certificate); November ’71 – 1975 (when adult softcore cinema was at its most inventive); 1976 – 1980 (vast changes in the international industry saw the softcore market fade and things take a turn from the sexy to the sleazy) and 1981 onwards (the cinema market for all sex films collapsed entirely).

Countries of Origin (1963 – 10/1971)

USA – 55

ITALY – 35

FRANCE – 25

UK – 21

GERMANY – 5

SWEDEN, AUSTRIA, SPAIN – 3 each

AUSTRALIA, JAPAN, MEXICO – 2 each

DENMARK – 1

Predictably, American films were the most favoured at the Star but the fact that French and Italian films were so popular in this period points to the vibrant international market for those national cinemas in the period and the fact that they were leaders in providing the salacious material that was booming around the world in the 1960s. In time the Americans and the British would also target these markets and by the late 70s they had it cornered.

Initially I had planned a straight chronology of the films the Star screened, however to provide a little cultural and cinematic context I have instead decided to categorise them into genres. Some, such as horror, comedy and science fiction are easily identifiable. However, the Star’s managers quickly recognised that the trick was to lure customers by the promise of skin – whether the content matched the advertising is a different matter altogether. So the most prominent genre was ‘sex’ and that I have divvied into various themes as well.

MONDO SCHLOCK

In 1962 Italian directors Gualitero Jacopetti, Paolo Cavara and Franco Prosperi unleashed Mondo Cane into cinemas. Culled from footage shot across the globe, it was a bizarre hodge-podge of sequences with a theme intending to show that we really do live ‘a dog’s life’ (the film’s literal title translation). So we have hogs bashed to death for a ritual feast in Papua New Guinea, aging Italian sex symbol Rossano Brazzi being mobbed by female fans in New York, gourmets dining on fried beetles at an upscale American restaurant, sexy teenage lifesavers in Sydney, the ruination of the ecology on Bikini atoll, a strange commemoration of the birth of Rudolph Valentino in his Italian hometown and so on and so forth.

There is a pretty primitive effort to tie each clip together, generally on the tenuous notion of irony – juxtaposing native cultural acts with supposed civilised ones to show, I suppose, that the west is just as capable of excessive and weird behaviour. For example, rich Hollywood stars laid their pet dogs to rest in special cemeteries, complete with engraved headstones and plaques. Cut to Hong Kong, where puppies sit in cramped cages, unaware they are to be the main ingredients of a stew much enjoyed by the locals. Or, on a Pacific island potential brides are force fed fatty foodstuffs to attain the obese weight desired by their tribal chief but in America women will go to crazy extremes to lose just a couple of pounds. Sure, it is all a little obvious, but even today Mondo Cane can offer some sensational sights for the first-time viewer. Shot in quite glorious colour and cut together with a rapid fluency, the film is aided no-end by a luscious Riz Ortolani score, which has the lyrical, loungey feel of the jet-setting early 1960s.

Massively popular upon release, this ‘shockumentary’ was actually the recipient of many favourable reviews upon its release and managed a Golden Palm nomination at Cannes that year. Just as successful in America it was nominated for a best song (of all things) Oscar for Ortolani’s “More”, which was also a surprise chart-hit. In Melbourne Mondo Cane had a long run at the prestigious Odeon Cinema before moving down the ranks and onto the suburban circuit.

Naturally a hit of this magnitude would warrant a sequel and Mondo Cane was on the screen within a year. Relatively cheap to produce and assemble, the market was soon flooded with imitators and it has been estimated that around 100 such variations were produced in Europe alone in the 1960s (British, American and even Asian filmmakers also jumped on the Mondo bandwagon during the boom).

It must be stated that, although Mondo Cane was a phenomenon in its day, the lurid documentary had a long established history in world cinema, its appeal rooted in within the notion of the ‘cinema of attractions’ that popularised the medium in its earliest days. The safari film and its variations would see a noted big-game hunter, explorer or (apparent) anthropologist take a camera into one of the dark continents and present a world once only read about to startled western audiences. Savage animals, spectacular scenery, bizarre tribal customs and rituals, exotic costumes and violent acts we in the civilised world would generally abhor. Due to their ‘educational’ purposes and for the fact they contained documented actualities, these films would be allowed a certain leniency by censors. So they would contain (or at least sell to the public) some tame nudity and a smattering of blood. Although a number of these films were sincere efforts, a vast majority were lurid bits of sensationalism and the racist attitudes of the filmmakers leave you wincing when viewing today. Mostly relegated to the seedier theatres of downtown, a number of these early ‘mondos’ played at the Star and were occasionally re-released to cash in on the popularity of the Italian wave.

Eventually the Mondo craze wore itself out and their numbers decreased into the 1970s, as the filmmakers tried their hands at more profitable quick-fire genres such as spaghetti westerns and giallo thrillers. During the 1960s the Star (by my criteria) played 22 Mondos as main features, the following decade, as the theatre’s focused on sex and basically sex only, the numbers fell to a small handful. However the Mondo continued to live on, and finding homes on drive-in screens, delivering content more sadistic and gruelling than Mondo Cane would ever have imagined showing. With the 70s and early 80s providing all manner of savage dictators perpetrating ghastly atrocities across the third world, Mondo filmmakers happily cashed in of the public fascination and audiences lapped it up.

But by this time the Star Cinema had long since moved on and we are getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s take a look at the Mondo films on offer during the first period of the Star’s life as a feature cinema…

MONDO AFRICA

Mau Mau (USA: 1955 – Elwood Price). Having a healthy 3 week run in March 1964, this tatty doco was already nearly a decade old when the Star gave it a burl. In the early 1950s the Mau-Mau tribe (correctly known as the Kikuyu) nabbed international headlines when they incited an uprising in their native Kenya against the colonial settlers over land occupation (among other issues). The Brits sent in the troops to quell the unrest, but not before many thousands (mostly rebels) had been killed. Producer Joe Rock, an old time exploitationer knew a good opportunity when it came knocking and threw together a few reels of old stock footage and spliced in some hastily shot sequences (filmed in L.A.) of wild-eyed savages attacking poor white farmers. Designed for a few quick ‘four-wall’ pay-offs, the film did terrific business before the public caught on that they were duped. By that time the flick had moved onto the next city. The true issues behind the uprising were complex with both sides guilty of atrocities, yet also with genuine grievances. Take a look at the Star’s admat and tell me if Mau-Mau’s presentation was going to be even-handed.

Zanzubuku(USA: 1956 – Lewis Cotlow) Director Lewis Cotlow had achieved a degree of fame as an intrepid explorer (pith helmet, safari suit – the whole get up), documenting his adventures in best-selling books and on film. This flick covered his third trip to the Dark Continent, covering some 15,000 miles through Tanzania, Uganda, Kenya and the Belgian Congo over a period of 8 months. Although the film is more concerned with getting up close and personal with dangerous animals, I believe it traverses the confines of the ‘safari film’ and becomes an early forerunner of the Mondo. For Zanzubuku is fascinated with a number of tribal rituals and curiosities, such as headwear, dancing and piercings. Cotlow later used pieces of this film for Vanishing Africa (1969) a film he screened at a series of lecture tours. Zanzubukumanaged a solitary week in December ’63.

Karamoja – Land of the Naked People(USA: 1954 – William B. Treutle). Okay how does this grab ya? A Washington dentist (director

Treutle) visits the doctor and is told that he has only six months to live. Bummer. Having always wanted to visit Africa and with no time to lose, he packs up and heads off. In the Belgian Congo he meets an American woman with little faith in western medicine who cannot believe his prognosis. They fall in love, marry and make their way through 17,000 miles of jungle to Karamoja in northern Uganda. There they live among the Karamojans and document their ancient and often barbaric lifestyle. The naked warriors tattoo the number of enemies they have killed upon their arms, there are painful piercings and stone-age dentistry (which no doubt caught Treutle’s attention). Animals are captured and boobies jiggle about in true National Geographic fashion. Oh, and guess what? By the time he leaves Africa, he is cured of whatever disease had ailed him! Back to the dental clinic for William, whether he took to employing the Karamojan practice of smashing out teeth with a rock is anyone’s guess. Karamoja – Land of the Naked People was quite a hit at the Star, lasting 4 weeks from late June of ’64.

Naked Africa(USA: 1957 – Ray Phoenix & Cedric Worth). Bouncing boobs ahoy as once again we journey into the jungle. More piercings and some firewalking are on the menu and much discussion of initiation rites as boys become men. The only notable contributor to the piece is narrator Quentin Reynolds, a popular columnist of the day, who no doubt had a gas bill needing payment when he knocked off this effort one afternoon after lunch. Naked Africa found enough takers to play for 2 weeks from July of 1966 (it then reappeared for a fortnight in March of 1969 as a support for the Raquel Welch sex comedy, The Queens). The co-director of Naked Africa, Ray Phoenix, only has one other filmmaking credit and this is as a cinematographer on The Mating Urge(USA: 1959 – no director credited). He contributed the footage for the South African segment of a travelogue that discusses courtship customs of various young indigenous folk of the world, basically “How native boys get their chicks into the sack”. From Africa to the Orient we see knife-fights, forms of bungee jumping and (naturally) nude bathing. The commentary by Art Gilmore (on a break from providing the narration for “Highway Patrol”) is the sort that refers any couples together as “having a date”. Believe it or not, this film (probably the heavily censored version that played in the UK) turned a lot of coin for the Star, dragged out for three engagements during the period of 4 weeks at a time – in July ’64, March ’68 and July ’70.

Africa Goodbye (Italy: 1966 – Gualtiero Jacopetti & Franco Prosperi) After the success of Mondo Cane , its sequel and Women of the World, Jacopetti and Prosperi embarked on their most ambitious project, Africa Addio. Now presenting a sideshow of worldwide grotesquities for Mondo Cane is one thing, but purporting to present a thesis detailing Africa’s end to colonialism is another. You have to bear in mind that in the post WW2 era a number of European colonisers were upping their flags and moving back home, leaving the continent in the hands of its original owners. When this film was released in 1966 it was both topical and contentious and believe me, it is an understatement to describe Africa Addio as controversial. Now as this particular article is only a basic roundup of the films to play at the Star during a certain period, I do not have the scope to provide an in-depth review of this film and man it needs one. Banned in all of Africa, except South Africa where it broke box office records (that may tell you something) and withdrawn from screens in Europe and the USA after public and official protest (that may tell you something more) it is an extraordinary piece of cinema. There is sex and there is (lots of) gore all woven into a most touchy polemic that many took to be endorsing the most orientalist and reactionary views of African independence.

In a few weeks I will (hopefully) get around to submitting a proper review of this film. Suffice to say that if one conducts an internet search one may find certain grubby far-right websites raving about its merits. A disaster for the filmmakers that harmed their bank balance and destroyed their reputations, it limped into the Star for a single week in September of 1968, under the clumsy title of Africa Goodbye (if you take a look at the admat you can see the slipshod alteration of the poster). In 1970 it was shorn of around an hour and re-released as Africa Blood and Guts. With must of the polemic left in the editor’s bin this version was a minor hit on the drive-in circuit. In the face of the initial resultant criticism Jacopetti and Prosperi withdrew for several years, finally returning with an attempted apologia entitled Farewell Uncle Tom in 1971 which, they declared, would show them to be sincerely sympathetic to the plight of Africans at the hands of the white man. Sadly the road to hell is paved with good intentions and that film was a disaster that caused riots in Times Square but broke box office records in Melbourne. But that, as they say, is a story for another time….

MONDO LONDON

West End Jungle(UK: 1961 – Arnold L. Miller).Running just under an hour this feature takes an undercover look at the seamier side of London after the Street Offences Act of 1959 supposedly cleared prostitutes from the streets. Focusing on the sexual urges of men in general whose desires create the demand for the sex industry. Strip clubs, massage parlours and grubby bars are explored, along with peep shows of ‘photographic models’. The tone is one of outrage at an underside that demeans and destroys vulnerable girls. The BBFC refused to pass the film as suitable for screening (and never has) and the London City Council would not issue approval either, meaning West End Jungle was basically banned in the city it depicted. One consolation was that this controversy (its content was even discussed in the House of Lords!) made for a juicy tagline in the advertising. More than likely the censors were more concerned with some of the staged sequences with actors that purported to be ‘real’. It had a healthy 4 week run at the Star from September of ’67 with Naked in the Deep (a nudie doc) rounding it out to an acceptable session length. West End Jungle was the work of director Arnold L. Miller and producer Stanley A. Long.These two entrepreneurs had began the Stag company in 1958 producing 8mm striptease flicks and nudie photos for the Soho trade. Although they made industrial films to keep the cash flowing and an attempt at a crime flick (1962’s The Skin Game), sex was their stock in trade and the Mondo variety proved mighty popular.

In 1964 Miller and Long delivered London In The Rawto a grateful public.This time they had the backing of Tony Tenser’s and Michael Klinger’s Compton-Cameo Films, a burgeoning British production and distribution company that had hit paydirt with several low budget exploitationers. Although it had been pre-dated by West End Jungle, Mondo Cane was the film creating queues around the block in late ’63. With that in mind the producers hit upon the idea of a local version which, if shot on the quick, could be in theatres before the Italian film had left the screen. Miller and Long were then signed to complete this task. Joining Miller as co-director in London in the Raw was Norman Cohen (later to helm a number of the very successful Confessions… sex comedies) and Long handled the camera work. Depicting 24 hours in the life of the city, the film gave us strippers, drunks, beatniks and most controversially, an actual hair transplant in all its gory glory. By all accounts this sequence created headlines due to horrified punters fainting in the theatres. A smash hit in its homeland, it managed three weeks in September of ’66 at the Star and an encore appearance of a week in December ‘68.

Originally titled London in the Raw 2, Primitive London premiered in March of 1965. Once again made for Compton-Cameo, Miller was sole director and Long shared producing duties with Klinger. A little more ambitious than their previous efforts, Primitive London began with a child birth, gave us mods, rockers and beats and showcased martial arts. There were wife-swappers and strippers and even recreations of the murders of Jack the Ripper!…oh, and there was an unfortunate sequence with chickens. This was apparently the ‘Swinging London’ the world did not see, but local audiences did and it had a very tidy release at the Windmill Theatre which paraded noted dancer Vicki Grey dressed in leopard skins and leading a cheetah on a leash around the district for some eye-catching publicity. Unfortunately, receipts tapered off and it was decided that the London shockumentary had had its day. After one more film together Long and Miller went their separate ways, although remaining predominantly within the sexploitation field. However Miller gained some lasting respect for producing a couple of films for director Michael Reeves, including the classic Witchfinder General.The Star Theatre managed to squeeze only a week out of Primitive London in November of ’67, but left us with some quite startling artwork to remember itby.

MONDO AMERICA

Oddly enough, for a nation often pilloried for is excess, the USA was rarely the focus for the Mondo camera. In fact, the pair I list here could possibly be categorized as ‘sexy’ flicks, but the inclusion of a few weird items in the mix has them inching into Mondo territory.The Americas By Night(Italy: 1961 – Carlos Alberto De Souza Barros & Giuseppe Maria Scotese) was a travelogue through the continent that concentrated on the US with a little time also spent south of its border. Nightclub acts abound, with burlesque and striptease acts interspersed with noted musical performers such as Lionel Hampton. The decadence of the continent is the purported theme of Americas by Night, but the colourful costumes and jazzy tunes were the selling point. The co-directors (and seven producers, for that matter) all toiled away in careers working the lower end of the exploitation market in Italy, from peplums to westerns to crime flicks, with little of particular note. However one the cinematographers, Massimo Dallamano, was later lauded for his forays into the horror &giallo genres, helming such masterworks as A Black Veil For Lisa (1968) & What Have They Done to Solange? (1972).The Americas By Night played a week at the Star in July of 1968 with the 1957 British comedy Carry on Admiral which, belying its title, was not one of the long-running saucy comedy series.

Had it been advertised with its star as the main attraction during its fortnight engagement at the Star in 1969, then Las Vegas by Night (USA: 1967 – Walon Green & Mitchell Leisen) would have probably been discussed later, in the ‘bombshell’ category. However, instead of extolling the virtues of the busty Jayne Mansfield, the admat tells us absolutely nothing. Not a single word of copy, just a montage of Vegas showgals. It is had to fathom the reason for that, but in any case, Mansfield is definitely the attraction of this show and she sings a couple of numbers when showcased at her gigs at the Tropicana and Dunes nightspots. Vic Damone, Constance Moore and Juliet Prowse (who sued the producers for her inclusion) are among the other featured acts. Now one would think that these names would be enough for a low rent musical collage, yet boxing, cockfighting, gambling and other seamier aspects of the Nevadan city are thrown in for good measure, along with requisite showgals and strippers. The pairing of directors is sorta strange. Leisen had been a respected contract director at Paramount in the 30s-50s, working with the likes of Alan Ladd, Marlene Dietrich and Joan Fontaine. Not too many acknowledged ‘classics’ in his filmography, but few duds either. After a decade directing for television he was lured back to the big screen for this, his final film, released in the USA as Spree. Walon Green is now an executive producer on “Law and Order”, but alongside Sam Peckinpah he co-wrote The Wild Bunch (1969).As a director Green made the cult classic The Hellstrom Chronicle (1971) along with a number of nature-related pieces. How he came to Las Vegas by Night is anyone’s guess. Like I said, it is a bizarre combination. Thankfully though, the film’s trashy pedigree can be found with the producer Carroll Case who gave us Billy the Kid Versus Dracula and Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter (both 1966). And for that we are eternally grateful. Filling out the program was the cult classic 1955 car-chase thriller, The Fast and the Furious.

MONDO ORIENT / PACIFIC

It is sorta strange to see how the word ‘Orient’ and its variations have fell from favour in the common usage. This is particularly the case in reference to describing persons and races. There is something a little condescending in the term and it bears too many connotations of a colonial past which no longer holds the pride it once did to we of the west. Within this little sub-section of the Mondo genre we find two films with the word ‘Orient’ in the title and sadly, of the three films within the category, I was only able to track own worthwhile information on a single title.

Italian Roberto Bianchi Montero was a director who had the dubious distinction of having five films play at the Star during the 1963-71 period. Here was a bloke who would leap onto any bandwagon in order to keep working, with peplums, crime flicks and melodramas the mainstay of his career before his first foray into Mondo territory with Orient By Night(1962). Now this may be perhaps classified as an example of the ‘sexy’ film. This offshoot of the mondo will be explored separately in the next part on the Star Theatre, but as a brief description, these were mondo-variations, that concentrated on the female form, usually within the setting of a nightclub, dance or strip act.Eschewing the grotesque angle of the Mondo, the ‘sexy’ films maintained a level of eroticism throughout, without interrupting the mood with nausea-inducing sequence. There were over a hundred ‘sexy’ films produced, from around 1960 to the middle of that decade. As a rule of thumb they did not have the international currency of the mondos and their exhibition was usually restricted to the adult theatres, whereas the mondos could at least claim a (pseudo) anthropological/social value to their content.

In any case, returning to Orient by Night, it appears that this may be a Mondo due to its theme of cultural rituals and traditions with an apparent shock value stirred into the pot. In this case the ‘Orient’ comprises mostly of the Middle-East and its women (uncovered cat’s meat, anyone?) are the usual suspects – dancers, tribe members etc. Montero knocked off nine mondo/sexy films within two years and, reading the winds of exploitation well, jumped ship for a spell in spaghetti westerns and war flicks, caught the horror wave in the 70s and spent his final years in the 1980s directing porn. He’s an overlooked figure whose filmography reads like a timeline of Italian exploitation cinema. Orient by Night was supported during its 3 week run at the Star from May of ’68 by the middling British ship-bound comedy, Not Wanted on Voyage (1955).

The only Asian film to play at the Star in this period was one of the very few Mondos produced by that region, the Japanese It’s a Woman’s World(1964). This was the sole directing credit for Taijiro Tamura, a popular author of pulp fiction. Around the time of this film’s release he was between gigs adapting two of his most popular novels – “Gate of Flesh” and “Story of a Prostitute” for director Seijun Suzuki. The ensuing films have become acknowledged classics. Once again it is difficult to place It’s a Woman’s World, as I am unable to find much information about it. However I will call it a ‘mondo’ rather than a ‘sexy’ for the sole (and perhaps feeble) reasoning that a writer of Tamura’s style and note would include a little more in his film than a travelogue of dancers and strippers. Then again the admat states that we will see the ‘exotic-wierd and wonderful’. When they can’t even spell the second adjective correctly, who knows what the film contained? It’s a Woman’s World scored a single week at the Star, in August of 1968.

Talking of mysterious, if anyone can tell me about Women of the Orientthen I’d be pleased to hear it. Unfortunately I can locate nothing on this title, but I have the sneaking suspicion it may be Women…Oh, Women! a title that does not exactly roll off the tongue in its original version. This 1963 Japanese mondo found a way to fit junkies, massage parlour gals and other assorted taboos into the usual parade of pretty young things in various states of undress. That film’s director, Tetsuji Takechi, has his last credit listed as Captured for Sex (1987). A veritable charmer, no doubt. Anyway, for now Women of the Orient will remain a mystery. For now all I can be certain of is that it played for one week in July of 1969 at the Star, with the William Bendix service comedy, The Phony American (actually a West German production from 1961) as its support.

Unsurprisingly, it was not often that the Star Theatre unspooled an Academy Award winning documentary but such was the case in October of 1968 when The Sky Above, The Mud Below (France: 1961- Pierre-Dominique Gaissieu) ran for a week. More akin to a safari-type doco than a true mondo, this film is included for the way it was sold – “Weird Love Rites”, “Girls Offered To Guests as Hospitality” and my favourite, “Savage Brutality as Men and Women Celebrate the Cult of the Severed Head” screamed the ad copy.This flick follows an expedition into West Papua in 1959 where the filmmakers lived with the natives and observed their way of life. An arduous undertaking, three native porters died on the trek and the party had to survive disease, animal attacks and physical exhaustion. A remarkable film for its day, it not only took home the Oscar, but was nominated for the Golden Palm at Cannes. On its first release The Sky Above, The Mud Below was treated with deserved respect. Less than a decade later it became an unwilling mondo by default, when the most sensational aspects of a sincere story were highlighted to appeal to a jaded public. It is an interesting study in how a few short years can so affect the value of popular culture. Joining it at the Star was yet another in the run of low budget British comedies the Star was so fond of, It’s a Great Day starring Sid James in a feature film version of the popular TV sitcom, “The Grove Family”.

MONDO Europa

Although he would probably not remember much of the experience, Ennio De Concini co-penned the 1959 Italian pre-mondo, European Nights. Just a few years later he would pick up an Academy Award for his Divorce Italian Style (1961) screenplay and over a long and prolific career he worked on the scripts of directors as diverse as Mario Bava, Vittoria De Sica, Monte Hellman and Tinto Brass. I can only gather that he wrote the narration for European Nights and who knows how much was left intact when revoiced for the American market by the acid-tongued Henry Morgan? In any case, De Concini’s co-writer was none other than Gualitero Jacopetti, the big daddy of the Mondo scene who was soon to step into the director’s chair with Mondo Cane (1963). So we can establish this film’s pedigree, although it could well be argued that it would make a better fit into the ‘sexy’ category with its strippers and belly-dancers doing their nightclub thing. However it does also include an interlude with a weird and savage clown act, a few magic tricks and a number of musical performances (including The Platters) so it scrapes into the mondo category by taking a few naïve steps into some odd terrain. The director was Allesandro Blasetti whose long but spotty career had included the epic Fabiola (1949) and some early Sophia Loren vehicles. European Nights clocked up a healthy 3 weeks at The Star in August 1968. As its evening support was the troubled-youth drama, The Girl in Lover’s Lane (USA:1959) which starred Brett Halsey, an actor who would later carve out an interesting career in European exploitation, working four times with Lucio Fulci.

These days, producer Arthur Cohn is accustomed to stepping up to the podium to collect awards for the likes of Central Station (1998), One Day in September (1999) and The Chorists (2004). But it wasn’t always that way. Back in 1961 he gained his first producing credit on the aforementioned The Sky Above, The Mud Below and he followed that with Paris Secretin 1964. A rare French foray into the overcrowded Mondo genre, Paris Secret featured gourmets chowing down on bats, voodoo practitioners, a chap who has a fetish for being covered in bees and a gal who has the Eiffel Tower tattooed on her arse so she can sell the skin at a later date (her date not included). These choice cuts are interspersed amongst the usual parade of prostitutes, transvestites and strippers. A hit in its native France, (beating out Connery’s The Hill for number one box office spot the week they both opened) Itwas directed by Edouard Logereau who worked the bulk of his career in television.Paris Secret staked out a fortnight at The Star in July of 1968 and it was paired for its evening sessions with the British musical comedy It’s a Wonderful World (1956), directed by Val Guest who would later be highly regarded by fans for his horror and science fiction work.

MONDO SLAVERY

You really do have to wonder about the appeal of the ‘sex-slavery-expose’ Mondo. For here is subject matter that really should repulse an outrage the viewer an yet here it is playing at The Star, a cinema making a name for itself as Melbourne’s home of the erotic. How do you reconcile that? Then again, we’ll see in later instalments of the history of this cinema that a large number of prostitution and slavery narrative films would advertised for their titillating qualities so it is apparent that there was an audience that found a certain attraction to such material. It takes all types, I guess, that is why the term ‘taboo’ was invented…

When I was a boy things were all very “Andy Griffith Show”. Dad would take me fishing, we’d make go karts together and play catch in the yard. Well no, not really it wasn’t quite like that but nor was it like the relationship between Maleno Malenotti and his son Roberto, who formed a loving father-son bond while co-directing Slave Trade in the WorldToday (Italy/France:1964). To be honest I would have preferred that experience (“son, always remember, if she has tits then go from medium to close-up”) as being taught how to kick a torpedo punt never really held me in great stead throughout my life, but I digress. Slave Trade in the World Today took the trouble to look for explanations for why, contrary to Article 4 of the Declaration of Human Rights, slaves were still being bought and sold on the world market in the 1960s. With the grand sweeping statement that would make Michael Moore proud, they declared it to be oil. So begins the procession of initiation ceremonies, flagellation, rain dancing, slave caravans and harems and the startling shot of crabs on an island picking at the bones of skeletons. Naturally, if these women are to be treated like commodities, then the Malenottis do us the service of displaying the goods with enough belly dancing, strip-tease and jiggly boobies to pad out the running time. Maleno Malenotti had a rather highbrow start to his career as a producer with a keen interest in films about opera. Slave Trade in the World Today was his second and final shot at directing and he roped his son into the production after the original co-director, Folco Quilici (a long time documenter of the exotic), left the production due to the usual ‘creative differences’. I would guess that Maleno was not overly impressed by the genre and he quickly returned to producing a number of respectable comedies and dramas that featured the likes of Diana Dors, Sophia Loren and Vittorio Gassman. Son Roberto managed a final cinema direction credit with The Sisters, a turgid 1969 melodrama starring Susan Strasberg, before landing a couple of TV credits in the following decades. Slave Trade in the World Today only lasted a week at the Star in July of 1968 with the 1958 prison-break melodrama Revolt in the Big House as its support. The latter would be worth a look just for its top-draw leading men – Gene Evans, Timothy Carey and Robert Blake. The capable R.G. Springsteen kept the director’s chair warm.

MONDO mondo

After taking on countries then continents, next comes the world. An intended sequel to European Nights, 1959’s World by Nightran a similar course stating its aim to show “night people and their pleasures”. Mostly nightclub and revue footage, like European Night it is neither strictly a Mondo nor a sexy, sort of a combination of both before each forked off into their own sub-genre. This time around we have ballet, strip, dancing whales, gospel, rock n’ roll, cabaret, wrestling and a comedic dog and his trainer. Their film makers had their passports stamped with visits to Paris, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Harlem, Las Vegas and Hollywood. It is no great surprise to see that it was scripted by Gualitero Jacopetti who also provided the spoken original commentary. However for the English-language market dub George Sanders filled in some downtime by providing his caddish tones. Making a brief appearance as herself is Belinda Lee. Now late night viewers of the ABC may be familiar with the breathtakingly lovely Belinda through her roles in numerous British J. Arthur Rank films of the 1950s. By the end of that decade and tiring of being eye candy in British films, Lee moved to Europe where her roles became darker but hardly of better quality. During this time she fell in love with Gaulitero Jacopetti and began a well-publicised relationship. Tragically, it is during the making of Women of the World in 1961 that they are involved in a car accident near San Bernadino in California. Jacopetti breaks his leg but Lee has her head nearly severed and dies at the scene. That film is dedicated to her, a desperately sad ending for a most beautiful and quite talented actress. World by Night was the directorial debut for Luigi Vanzi who, under the pseudonym of ‘Vance Lewis’ later directed the Tony Anthony ‘Stranger’ trio of spaghetti westerns, which were minor international hits. The cinematographer on World by Night was the young Tonino Delli Colli who would later find acclaim for his stunning work with many key Italian directors including Fellini, Leone, Pasolini and Wertmuller. This film, distributed worldwide by Warner Brothers, had a 2 week run at the Star in August 1966.

MONDO Bizarro

Roberto Bianchi Montero once again provides us with the Star’s two examples of true mondo – a removal of all geographic boundaries for a focus on the weird. Sex may get a run off the bench but the real attraction is the strange customs, habits and fetishes of the world’s population. This is the very heart and definition of the ‘shockumentary’.

Now Montero, as explained in the description of Orient by Night was a stunningly prolific director of mondo and sexy features and is credited with nine such films in just three years (seven in 1963 alone!!!). How did he do it? Well, there were cannibals in the Italian film industry long before Ruggero Deodato took his camera into the jungle. Basically, Montero would hack up other films – mostly of the documentary variety – and re-edit his own footage into new features complete with an added commentary. So prolific was Montero that his 1963 effort Mondo Infame is not even listed on Imdb. From what I gather it is yet another journey into the more lurid aspects of various cultures and takes in Great Britain, Kenya, Ceylon, India, New Guinea, Indonesia, Ecuador, the Amazon and Colombia among other hotspots. Mondo Infame (AKA: This Vile World) screened for a fortnight in May of 1968 with its support being “The Raffle”, Vittorio De Sica’s segment from Boccaccio ’70 (1962), starring Sophia Loren.

Montero’s last trip to the mondo well came in 1964 with Mondo Balordo(AKA: A Fool’s World), a shopping list of the usual atrocities including transvestites, dwarf romance, women who bathe in camel’s urine, Japanese bondage, strange veterinary practices, drug racketeers, exorcism rituals plus lesbians, strippers and brothels. By the end of the 1960s was there a single strip-club in the world that had not been visited by mondo’s cameras? Now it is pretty obvious that one had best take the claims of these films with a biblical-sized pillar of salt. This is particularly recommended in regards to the Montero collection. Between the cut-n-pasting of the stock footage, the need to be spicier than the previous flick, whatever dialogue has been scribbled for the narration and what is mangled in the English-language dub, you are left with a pretty tenuous notion of veracity in the image. More than likely this matter was hardly helped by the English dub of Mondo Balordo being provided by none other than Boris Karloff (in his most sinister delivery). Boris had previously worked for Montero on the 1954 Italian crime flick, The Island Monster and I would assume that Karloff recorded this in Italy in 1963 on a break from filming Mario Bava’s Black Sabbath. He happily plays himself in this narration, stating that nothing he had played in his film career could be as horrifying as the real-life acts featured in this very film. I would hazard a guess that nothing could be as sleep-inducing either (save, perhaps, for that quartet of rubbish he made for Juan Ibanez at the fag end of his career). At least Boris picked up a pay cheque for his toil. However Mondo Balordo kept the Star’s punters entertained, playing for three weeks in January 1969.

MONDO COUNTER CULTURE

Later on down the track I will work my way up to discussing The Star Theatre’s 70’s screening schedule and that is where you’ll see the name ‘Harry H. Novak’ crop up time and time again. Novak ran Box Office International Pictures, a company that distributed a large number of trash films (violent westerns, nasty thrillers, a few horrors and plenty of softcore porn). BIOP was also a production company and they made a tidy fortune from tapping into the softcore market that had once been the domain of the European import. More specifically they worked their own little niche – hillbilly porn – featuring backwards chicken ranchers and lots of busty gals in tight denim shorts flouncing around in the hay of the barn and the mud of the pigsty. The very titles alone will leave no further explanation required – Tobacco Roody, Country Hooker, Country Cuzzins (all 1970), Southern Comforts, Midnight Plowboy (both 1971) and The Pigkeeper’s Daughter (1972). Yes, they are all pretty inbred and a chore to sit through but I will admit the girls are sexy as all get-up and I am not completely adverse to the odd bit of cornpone humour. All of these flicks were hits in Melbourne and most had a run at the Star (they also were playing at suburban drive-ins into the 1980s) and all were directed by a fellow named Peter Perry. Well, not that you would know, for Perry hid behind the pseudonym ‘Bethel Buckalew’ for the hillbilly sex films. Perry also snuck in a few costume adorned skin flicks during that time (The Notorious Daughter of Fanny Hill in 1966, The Secret Sex Lives of Romeo and Juliet in 1969 and The Notorious Cleopatra in 1970)…and credited himself on those as ‘Arthur P. Stootsberry’.

Peter Perry’s greatest achievement is one of the 1960s most extraordinary American sex films, Kiss Me Quick! (1964 and produced by Novak). Originally titled Dr. Breedlove: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love, its title was changed after Novak became paranoid that he would find a letter from Stanley Kubrick’s lawyers in his mailbox. It is a film that has to be seen to be believed – a horror, sci-fi, comedy sex flick. Making claims to be a Freudian fantasy, it is best enjoyed as a whacked-out strip-flick with a lashing of go-go dancing goodness. Oh, Perry filmed this smash hit under the name of Seymour Tuchas (!)

Believe it or not though, Perry did use his own name a couple of times, most notably on Mondo Mod (1967), one of the handful of American Mondo flicks of the 1960s. Now if you think that a film of that title was somewhat missing the boat in terms of 60s culture, then yes you are right. The Mods, as history sees them today, were an English subculture of the late 50s – early 60s. Basically their time was over by the second half of that decade as the hippy movement geared into full swing. However, from an American standpoint of the time, ‘Mod’ referred to the counter-culture in general – a sort of catchall term for hippies, beatniks bums and pretty much anyone with hair lower than the earlobe. Mondo Mod covers all of these bases over its haemorrhoid-inducing 140 minute running time and throws in bikers and surfers for an added bonus. We visit the Whiskey-A-Go-Go nightclub, pop into a dope-den, see go-go dancers in cages, acid trips and girly strips. The filmmakers never depart from Southern California and for the fuck of it we are bombed with statistic after statistic and if they were all made up on the spot I would not be at all surprised. Quite a bore and with far too many staged scenes, one remarkable aspect of the film is that its co-cinematographers were Vilmos Zsigmond and Laszlo Kovacs. Since the early 70s these gentlemen are regarded as among the best in the business. You may find one DOP of this calibre credited on a flick of this ilk, from this period – it does happen from time to time. But two on the same film, sharing the same duties? Amazing stuff. The Star took this one as a first run and it did well enough run for three weeks in October of 1971 (quite a belated release for a first-run). Mondo Mod has the minor distinction of being the very last film to play at the Star before the official introduction of the R-rating in Australia.

I need to make a couple of acknowledgements here. Firstly to Brian Miller and Edward Landsdowne for their article “Star Newsreel Theartette” in Cinemarecord Issue 14; November 1996 for their invaluable early history of the cinema.

Secondly to John Hamilton for his excellent book Beasts in the Cellar:The Exploitation Films of Tony Tenser, which provided much of the background information on the films of Stanley Long and Arnold L. Miller.

So, that’s it for the Mondo-cycle at the Star Theatrette. In part two of The Star: 1963-71 we’ll be looking at sexy flicks and vicesquad sleaze. Catchya then!

I have recently been finding the time to enjoy the Budd Boetticher box set released on R1 by Columbia last year. For some inexplicable reason no mention is made on the cover of the star of the five films contained – the legendary Randolph Scott. In any case the set is splendid. The prints are excellent and the supplementary materials are thoughtful.

I have long been a Scott fan, having enjoyed many Saturday afternoons as a kid sitting with my dad in front of the box watching the actor go about his business in his assured, unfussy way. Even at that young age I could recognise that there occurred a marked change in Scott’s acting and characterisation as he aged, no longer was he the cheerful hero of his earlier films, instead (like his physical features) he took on a leaner, leathery and harder look and his characters followed suit. It was this persona that was to be found in the cycle of seven films he made with Budd Boetticher.

Although we are an forum for open ideas here at Filmbunnies, I think it is outside this blog’s paracinema parameters to spend a great deal of time talking about the westerns of Randolph Scott. For that matter there is little more I could add to the seminal work of Jim Kitses in Horizons West, along with a number of other fine scholars who have nailed this actor-director partnership in print. Might I also mention our friend Livius over at Riding the High Country – http://filmjournal.net/livius/category/actors/randolph-scott/ – who has done a sterling job in covering the films of the Scott-Boetticher boxset.

However, one aspect of the series that has not been given the coverage it deserves is the assertion that these were ‘B-films’. Nowadays the term ‘B-Movie’ is tossed about with such thoughtless abandon that it has become commonplace to apply the description to any piece of cinema that is based on low culture material (Tarantino, comic book adaptations), is low budget (the Saw series) or is just plain ‘bad’ (Battlefield Earth). The term has basically lost all meaning. In its truest industrial sense, B-films were introduced in the years of the Great Depression as an addition to the bill so that audiences would be provided with a full night’s entertainment for the cost of a ticket. All the major studios had B-units which would churn out a vast quantity of such entertainments to accompany their more expensive A-features. Rarely running more than 75 minutes (and occasionally as few as 50 minutes) these films were almost always of a specific genre and often used as a training ground for young talent (and often as a last stop for those on the way down the star scale). Independent producers also got in on the B-film act with the Poverty Row likes of Monogram and Republic specialising in such product. Unlike A-features that would share a percentage of box-office receipts, B-films were sold at a flat rate, so distributors knew exactly how much money they could make. Once they had sold a certain number of playdates they had a floor ensuring a profit, but they also had a ceiling which would limit that revenue. This should all be common knowledge to any self-respecting film buff, as should the fact that B-films fell out of favour in the mid 1950s as audiences preferred to stay at home to watch television; if Hollywood were to lure them out of the house it was not going to be with low budget B-films, instead it had to be for something they could not get at home.

Here is where previous smaller studios came into their own. Columbia and Universal had always been seen as the poor cousins of the majors, with little in the way of theatre holdings and rarely spending much on their product. As the other majors were in mass panic over having to divest their theatre holdings (as per the 1948 ‘Paramount decree’) and were investing in big budget spectaculars and the poverty row production houses were closing shop, Columbia and Universal (and to an extent, Warner Brothers) stepped in the breach by offering a selection of mid-budget features starring performers with a pleasing marquee value. These were ‘programmers’ or ‘intermediates’ (sometimes referred to as A- or B+ pictures) that would paired with a similar feature, either of which could play the top of the bill, depending on which market the engagement was to screen.

Here’s where Randolph steps in. Up until the late 1940s Scott had been a reliable but minor A-star drifting through most of the majors and although prominently in western garb he had been in everything from Shirley Temple vehicles to supporting Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. From 1948 Scott worked in westerns exclusively and although he still provided his services as a performer only, he also appeared in a number of films in which he also co-produced with Harry Joe Brown (firstly through the company ‘Producers-Actors’ then ‘Ranown’). These films were distributed through either Columbia or Warner Brothers and often packaged with another of that studio’s features, although, in the case of the Columbia films, they could be picked up by any major who wanted a quality co-feature to partner one of their own mid-budget features on a quality double-bill.

To watch the Scott-Boetticher westerns on pristine DVD prints has been a fine privilege, but via such a medium they have been removed from their original context. For these films almost never played as solitary features. If one lived in certain markets – say, Kansas or even here in Melbourne – a Scott film would usually receive top billing and given a prominent release. For other, generally urban centres, the Scott fan would have to wait, sometimes many months, for an appropriate slot for the latest Randy western to appear. In either case the films only existed to be screened as half of a night’s entertainment and although they can be watched individually today, for viewers lucky enough to see them on first release, the Scott westerns (like any co-features of that time) would be mired in the memory with whatever film shared that bill.

The Scott westerns of the mid-late 50s featured their star as a loner, often embittered, who in trying to go about his business as unobtrusively as possible, is unwillingly thrown together with a a disparate group of villains, damsels and fools. By maintaining his calm and by adhering to his own personal code of decency, the Scott character will see the fools and cowards gunned down, will outwit his flashier adversaries and do the decent thing for the women he finds himself accompanying.

Scott once made a western called Riding Shotgun and for much of his later career he spent his time riding shotgun for a slew of studio product that needed a quality hand to guide it through the dangerous plains of showcase release. Poor Scott. Although he almost always was the star of the better film on the bill, when it came to urban market he was forced to support a number of unsuitable main features. Let’s take a look at his time in New York in the late 1950s and into the early 60s.

A homicidal child.

A newlywed couple – one a shrill American and the other a taciturn Italian. (apologies about the poor reproduction)

A hip-swivelling warbler with a dubious thesping talent.

An ill-matched pair for a romantic comedy.

Look closely at the top of this ad for the film playing at the Met – The Robert Taylor starrer Saddle the Wind (1958) had Scott’s Decision at Sundown as its support. When the MGM film went wide a week later, Scott took well-earned rest and the fine Anthony Mann feature The Tall Target, on re-release, took Scott’s place on the bottom of the bill.

A gurning clown.The re-release of a hand-drawn wicked stepmother.

A swashbuckling fop.

Yul and Kay? There’s a comedy match made in heaven.

Dubbed Italian musclemen.

Pity the poor Scott fan having to purchase tickets to this dispiriting (other than The Bad Seed) lot in order to catch their favourite star’s ltest feature. But if they were anything like the actor they would have gritted their teeth and got on with it. No fuss, no concern, satisfied with their lot and getting their companions through a week in New York. That was Scott – the rest have mostly fallen by the wayside, whereas the great western star now has a boxset of DVDs available for viewing.

As Scott says at the end of The Tall T – “Come on now, it’s gonna be a nice day”.